Double Down
by crazythatcounts
Summary: Running was always an option. But family means nobody gets left behind. And no one understands what that means more than Daryl Dixon. (Splits off from show canon after the episode "Forget" in Season 5)
1. His Last Bow

Running was probably the best option.

He'd considered it for a long while, almost since the beginning. Running had always been an option, of course. He'd always considered it - it would be so easy to just slip away into the dead of night, never to return. But he'd stopped himself just short of actually doing it every time. One foot out of the light of the campfire, more or less. He rationalized it as a safety in numbers, as being better off having someone at his back, as protecting the children.

Daryl didn't like admitting that Rick was right when he called them family. Not when he was so close to running for so long, the itchy tingle of being out in the open, of being reckless, of open sky and elbow room calling him away. Not when his fingers itched over the keys when he found a running car, like he could floor the gas and just leave forever. But something kept him, and if Rick called it family, he had to admit it probably was.

But now he was offered a bike. A bike that was truly his, a bike made for one, and he could smell the burning rubber under his feet and feel the handles hum under his fingers and that wanderlust kissed him gently and he just wanted to bolt. It was the same kind of itch that forced him to hunt for cigarettes, even when he knew he'd eventually run himself dry. And with how it was offered - Aaron, springing it on him like it was a badly planned birthday surprise - he was surprised he hadn't spent his days making it work so he could go. But that would mean spending more time around Aaron, and he tried to avoid too much quality time with him.

Aaron had started acting... weird. Daryl avoided it like it was a bitter taste. Of course, he knew what was going on, and knowing made it worse. Aaron had, at some point, pinpointed Daryl as _one of them_. Gay. He'd picked up some signal and had decided that Daryl really wanted some good dick, and he had started acting on it. He'd make a mention of how he and his partner wanted to do _this thing_ , or _that thing_ , and _would Daryl like to come_ like he was trying to get Daryl in a comfortable, relaxed place, so that Daryl could tell him some big secret. Like how Daryl was a queer. Of course, Daryl did not consider himself a homosexual. Girls tickled him in nice ways, nice ways that gay men wouldn't feel. Girls made him feel hot and bothered. The only other sign he could even consider in his determinations were his sometimes weird dreams, where he'd remember flashes of hot, large hands, scruff on his face, and nothing else.

Almost every one of those was proceeded with a half-assed caught-prey meal that he was pretty sure was the cause. Indigestion can cause weird dreams, and he was sure of it.

So Daryl had started avoiding Aaron like the man carried some plague, and with Rick's current campaign against trusting Alexandria and carrying weapons, Daryl honestly had nowhere to go. Running seemed more and more like the best decision, but until he had a bike he was sort of stuck. He could just vanish, of course, but he was _given_ a bike, and tearing away on the open road was so much more appealing that trying to make it out on foot.

He pressed his hands into the muddy earth beneath where he sat, leaning back against a tree. The woods had been such a good haven for him, having no other retreat. Not with Aaron hounding him when he was in the walls and Rick insisting he arm himself. At least out in the open he could carry his crossbow, and that seemed to satiate Rick well enough, and he didn't need to carry anything else. And Aaron had stopped trying to follow him after the first three attempts nearly left him with a bloody nose from Daryl's fist. So Daryl was alone, and it was nice. Quiet.

He'd found a glen, a small patch of exposed grass and a tiny pool of water that wasn't tainted with the heady smell of death, and walkers rarely passed through it. Occasionally he'd see a deer on the other side, just under the shadows of the trees, and it always saw him first and bolted. But it was nice, serene. He'd like to think, to sit and dream of the road and warm hands and his youth, his brother and everything before it happened. Before _it_ happened. The event with no name that no one wanted to mention as anything other than the difference between then and now, the difference between the light and dark place.

Something rustled, and Daryl sat up. He was usually undisturbed, at least with that kind of noise. It came again, close, and he tensed, reaching slowly for the bow he'd lain beside him. Human, obviously human, not the disjointed but consistent Walker stumble, the steady beating of feet that weren't sure how to place themselves. This rustle was short, and stopped frequently, and was soft and unsure and it was so human because an animal wouldn't make _that_ much noise. Daryl lifted the sight to his eyes, and shifted forward on his knees.

He could see, just through the green tangles of grass, a pair of shoulders. A blue t-shirt, ripped at the shoulder slightly. They shifted steadily, breathing, up and down, like whomever was struggling a bit, and then they straightened, slowly. Slowly, and Daryl could see the pain in the shift of the shoulders, the way they clenched, and he watched as the figure rose, and the head appeared over the grass.

It turned, and gray eyes met blue. For an instant, what was a fraction of a second but felt like hours, both eyes could read each other. Daryl read fear, immediate fear, like a deer caught in the beam of a bright light; a rabbit staying still or fear that movement would create a chase instinct in a predator, like if they stayed still they'd be fine. He could feel the moment before it happened - the boy, for Daryl could swear it was honestly a young _child_ and not an adult, not at that height, inhaled, and seeing Daryl shift slightly, bolted.

Daryl immediately took after him, ducking under the tree line and tracking his path quickly until he was almost up to him, watching the boy run through the trees. It was strange, this kid knew these woods well, taking strange paths through bushes and briars and around trees in a way Daryl wouldn't have guessed. But Daryl chased like a greyhound who had the bait pulled out from under him, so focused on keeping the blue t-shirt in his eyesight that he didn't realize they had ducked into a massive amount of corn until he'd lunged headfirst into it.

The issue with corn was that tracking in corn is hard, as there's little footprints, and a gentle touch can move around corn without breaking it. Daryl hopped in place for a moment, foot to foot, getting his bearings. He couldn't hear any movement, not even a small breeze rustling the tops of the partially developed corn. The kid wasn't moving - he was smart. Hiding in the corn was probably the safest way to avoid being detected. Sound would have given him away. Tracking would be tricky, and if Daryl moved, the kid would know. The silence was killing his chances of catching the fast little shit.

So he did what he thought _Rick_ would do, since tracking was the last thing he needed. He spoke. "Hey!" He called, in the general direction of inward, using a hand to amplify his voice. "Hey, I just want to talk to you!" He called again. The only sound was a large, fat bee that whizzed by. _Fuck_. "Come on!"

"Put your crossbow down!" Finally, a tiny voice responded. It was strained, and out of breath, and Daryl realized the kid had been literally _holding his breath_ to not be heard. "Outside the corn! Put it down and take a step back!" And Daryl, wanting to talk more than wanting to shoot anyone, stepped back and did as he was told. He gently set his crossbow down, and stepped back from it, putting his hands in the air for good measure.

"Okay!" He called into the bushes. "Come on out!" He sounded a little tense, and of course he was, because if someone wanted to shoot him now was probably the best time. The corn rustled, and he tensed further. Internally, he had it planned out - if he slipped forward, he could grab his weapon and fire in under ten seconds, and he could roll dodge anything in the same movement - but externally, he was, well... very obvious. He wasn't Rick. He didn't stand stock still when someone had a gun on him. He was antsy, and it was easy to tell.

The first thing he saw was blue. It was the boy, who, well, now that he'd seen their face, probably wasn't actually all that young. It was the softness of the jaw, maybe, or the size of the eyes, or the small stature, but he wasn't sure. He also wasn't sure the person was even male. But he had the eyes of a man, Daryl saw, now that the rabbit had fled. Gray and steel and hard. He was blond, sandy, a little strawberry in it, and shaggy, like he'd been without a haircut in a while. But his face was almost hairless. His hands were small, thin, and holding... a bow. A long, red, beaten re-curve bow, with an arrow in his left hand, and a quiver on his back.

"Why did you chase me?" He asked, the arrow twitching slightly like he might just shoot Daryl then and there. He was just as tense as Daryl was, though neither were actually under duress.

"Why d'you run?" Daryl replied, snappy. "You snuck up on me."

"I was hunting." The man raised his arrow, pointing his arrow at Daryl like it was an extension of his arm. "You scared my deer."

"I didn't do _shit_." Daryl cross his arms, eyeing his bow. Bow versus bow wasn't something he was used to calculating, but he figured his would win. If he could get to it in time. "Ain't that good of a hunter, though, going through that patch. How am I 'sposed to know you ain't following me?" He stepped forward, blood hot now. The probability of someone hunting like that, when there weren't any deer, was shit. He knew it, and from the way the other backed up, it was easy to tell they both knew it was bullshit. "What, Aaron sent you?"

"I don't know anyone named Aaron." The other said, stringing his bow. His hands were shaking, holding the arrow loose, but threatening. Daryl wasn't intimidated, he could hear the lie in the words, hear the hesitation in the other's tone, hear the worry, and he strode forward, picking up his crossbow quickly.

"You don't know anyone named Aaron?" He was accusing, biting, voice the low snarl of a dog on guard, moving forward with such purpose that the other nearly dropped the arrow from his shaking hands, leaving him almost nose to nose with the hunter. Daryl was tall enough to tower over the other, and he used it to his advantage. "How the fuck d'you survive out here, huh? Ain't shit out here easy to catch, with a bow like that 'n a body that small, I can't believe you'd last a day out here. Stop lyin' 'n tell me who th'fuck sent you!"

 _Pain_. That was his answer. Pain shooting up his side like he was on fire from the inside. The other couldn't shoot, couldn't fire a bow at that close range, but he could swing his arm up and shove the arrow hard into Daryl's ribs. It was sharp, he'd give the guy that, and it pierced his vest like he was wearing clothing made of butter. As soon as that burst behind his eyes, the boy was gone, bow left forgotten in the grass, bolting into the corn again like he was some phantom corn-child. Daryl grunted, bending down to pick up the bow, cradling his own wound. He shouldered his crossbow, huffy about the pain searing his side.

He was going to need stitches, he could tell, and he didn't want to owe anyone shit. Especially not from something as stupid as getting stabbed with an arrow from a fucking wild-child.

He stared at the bow in his hands, the worn red of it bright against the background, and then at the corn. If nothing else, he told himself, he'd see the kid again. No self respecting hunter would leave without their weapon. Especially not in this world, where a weaponless boy like that kid could get ripped in half if he wasn't careful.

He had the bait, all he had to do was set the trap.

After he got stitches, of course.


	2. To Kill A Mockingbird

It was probably the first time they'd seen someone stumble in wounded. The residents of Alexandria sort of gathered, hovering at the sidelines like vultures on a kill, jittery and fluttery and not ever really _still_. Daryl huffed at them, half-limping onward towards their specified housing units. He wasn't hurt that bad, not really. Yeah, there was a tiny drip-drip-drip behind him, and he did still have the arrow in his side, but it only hurt when he leaned on it, and he was only holding it so the arrow didn't bounce around too much.

"Daryl!" Rick was first on the scene, actually heading up to Daryl instead of hovering. "What happened?" He took the crossbow, unloading the weight from Daryl's shoulder, and Daryl grunted a thanks.

"Some fuckin' kid in the woods stabbed me." Daryl replied, stopping when Rick stepped in front of him. They eyed each other for a hot moment, Rick on guard behind his eyes. "Just one kid. Think he lives out there or somthin', I dunno. M'Fine." Daryl shouldered his way forward, the words washing a calm over Rick. They both knew what Rick was scared of, and they both knew Daryl wouldn't lie if that was actually a problem. "Just gotta get the arrow out."

"We'll take you to Pete, he'll have the supplies." Rick put a hand on Daryl's back, leading him, and Daryl followed, the hand somewhat comforting. He gestured to a resident, who ran ahead, full tilt, towards the Pete's house, while they headed in a different direction - a blue and white towering house with a porch and some plastic drapes to keep the hot, humid air out.

"I'm gonna go back out there once he's done." Daryl lifted the red bow, showing it off slightly. "Kid dropped his bow; figure the best way t'catch him is t'lure him back out with it." Daryl nodded, letting Rick lead as they made their way up the steps to the infirmary Alexandria had set up. It had been a house, once, just like the rest of the buildings, but they'd decked it out to be sterile. Daryl touched one of the plastic tarps, watching it flutter, leaving a small bloody print behind.

"Let's get the arrow out first, and then we can talk about the kid." Rick chided, leading Daryl inside. Pete had been already been alerted, and was on the way, so Rick barged right in, leading Daryl down a long hall to a bedroom, where an old table sat, covered in a sheet. "I don't want you racing off alone to find him, he has already proven he's dangerous." He guided Daryl to the table, and helped him hop up on it.

"He ain't dangerous." Daryl replied, peeling off his vest from his shoulders and gently off the arrow. His shirt was thin, and ripped underneath the vest wide enough where it wouldn't catch, so he ripped the shirt off too. "Look, that ain't even that deep. He got scared. I cornered him, s'all." Daryl looked Rick in the face, and god, Rick was so serious about safety that he didn't realize how much he was over-reacting. "He ain't dangerous." He was serious, up in Rick's face, steeled against the protective - if slightly crazed - return stare. "Lemme go out 'n try 'n talk to 'um. More then me'll scare 'um. He'll bolt."

"Alright." Rick conceded, slightly bent so he was looking up at Daryl. It was a very classic Rick move, which he used on Carl a lot. He looked less ruling like that, less intimidating. Daryl studied the movement, the sort of curious look, the bobbing of Rick's head - luring this kid in would be delicate, and studying the best talker in their troop was probably the best way of ensuring he wouldn't get stabbed again. "But if anything else happens, anything at all, that's it."

"Nothin' gonna happen." Daryl grumbled, turning his attention to his injury. The arrow was fully embedded, the head totally gone in the depths of his abdomen, but it wasn't serious. He gave it a push with his thumb, and the shaft wiggled, but the head wouldn't budge. He tugged, and it resisted, pain shooting up his side. " _Fuck_." He hissed.

"Kid got you good?" Pete said, stepping into the room. He wasn't wearing any scrubs or hospital gear, just his nice shirt and nice khakis. He was probably the least doctory looking doctor Daryl had ever encountered. And he had a lot of doctors visits in his day. Too many. But he had gloves, which was something Daryl hadn't seen anyone with in a long time.

"A little. Fucker hit hard, though." Daryl chuckled, putting a hand on Rick's shoulder. Rick took the cue and left, passing the shoulder pat to Pete on the way out. A sort of trusting mistrust, if you will.

"Well, it shouldn't take too long to get it out. Lie down, and I'll see if I can find something to numb the area."

~o~o~

It took a half hour and fifteen stitches to get Daryl out of the infirmary door. The arrowhead, which Daryl had spent much of the stitching part staring at, was a flat, pointed head. His arrows had a rounded tip, to puncture, which was classic for a crossbow and made mostly for target practice and small game. These had a flat face, and points facing backwards as well, like the classic description of arrows. But they didn't look modern, which were usually sleek and missing the unnecessary internal areas, for a lighter, faster arrow. These were fully casted, steel, and they were _sharp_. Daryl pressed the edge to his thumb and it immediately drew blood.

He could give the kid that - if nothing else, he kept his arrows sharp enough to pierce anything.

The daylight was starting to wane when he left, arrow and bow in one hand, crossbow over the other shoulder. The anesthetic - it was actually Novocain, which was made for oral use, but worked very well to make his side feel nothing at all - wouldn't wear off for a few hours, and Daryl wasn't worried about the forest at night. Honestly, he was much safer cloaked in the darkness.

But just in case, he told Rick _and_ Carol where the glen was, and if he wasn't back by noon the next day, they should send someone to look for him. They weren't happy he'd said noon, but if he needed to outwait anything in the dark, he probably wasn't going to come wandering in at dawn. That would be stupid, not to wait for full daylight. He didn't tell them he was mostly thinking that if he brought that kid back, sneaking him in at dawn wouldn't do anyone any favors either.

The forest was still around him as the sun faded. A soft rustle here - a bird - a shake of a bush there - a rabbit - but otherwise it was still, settling, sleepy. This was probably the best time for hunting, or for wandering, because nothing small made noise. Deer were nocturnal, and started to come out, and the little things shuffled back to bed, and it was so quiet every rustle was obvious. Daryl had to move slowly, steathily, to avoid startling any small creatures, so he could set his lure undisturbed.

His plan was simple. Find an open spot with little ground vegetation near the glen where he first saw the kid. Prop the bow up high in a tree, and then sit. Specifically, out in the open, so the boy would see him just as he would see the kid. No one would walk into the situation afraid to start with, and that meant no one would bolt, either. The spot was easy to find, and he hoisted the bow and the arrow into a tall tree branch, where the red would stand out like a beacon. Nearby, there was a rock, and he plopped down on it.

And he waited.

It was almost dark entirely, an hour or so later, before he saw anything. He could see it through the bushes, the faintest breath of blue behind the green foliage way off, the rustle of something tall. He could see the boy from a ways off, and almost immediately, the boy saw him. "Hey!" Daryl called, picking up his crossbow and setting it aside, putting his hands in the air. "It's okay! Just wanna talk. For real talk, too."

The boy hesitated, before moving forward steadily. He was only armed with a large kitchen knife, the quiver still on his back. "I brought your bow back. N'your arrow." Daryl gestured to the tree where they hung, just in reach of the boy. "Fucking thing 's sharp as fuck." He smiled, tried to look unthreatening, even sat down on his rock, and eventually the boy shuffled forward and snatched his things like a feral dog snatches food away from a camper.

"You didn't have to bring them back." The boy said, shouldering the bow and quivering the arrow, before sitting down himself. They were a good distance still, and the boy's options for running where many, which made him comfortable.

"Don't want 'um. 'Sides, how're y'gonna trust me if I don't even bring your things back?" Daryl asked. This wasn't that bad, he thought. At least they were talking like civil people and not stabbing each other. "You live out here?"

"Yeah." The boy very obviously didn't want to answer the question. "You?"

"Mm." Daryl shrugged, looking back over his shoulder. "Just holed up in Alexandria for now. Maybe for good. Don't know. Don't wanna know." He looked back, and the boy looked almost livid, fists clenching tightly against his pants. "What?"

"Did they send you to find me?" The boy was shaking, obviously shaking. "Did you tell them about me?"

"Nah, just m'party's leader." Daryl held out a hand, calming, trying to still the very obviously shaken boy before he went off and did something stupid. "We just got t'Alexandria, don't trust 'um. No one sent nobody t'get you." These words helped, and the boy stopped shaking, but stood, starting to pace slightly, back and forth, in a pattern Daryl recognized. Cornered.

"Then why are you here? _They_ don't leave their walls, they don't head this way, they know better." The boy was defensive, snippy. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize the kid and Alexandria had some kind of dispute, and had settled it in their own fashion, and now Daryl was treading into enemy territory.

"I'm not one of them." Daryl replied, steeled. "Don't like 'um. And they don't like me." It was almost an insult, honestly, to be thought of as one of them. Daryl was very obviously not. Sure, he was trying. He went to dinner with Aaron when he was asked - dinner was great, because he could blatantly ignore any prying by stuffing his face as loudly as possible - and he tried not to act in any way that would frighten the other residents. But he wasn't one of them. He was trying, but he wasn't getting used to the cushy life. "Honestly thinkin' of leaving."

He looked up, and the boy had stopped pacing, and was staring at his shoes. It was like it hurt him, to hear that Daryl was an outsider, too. Not like how Daryl had been guided to being embraced by the community by Aaron, as an outsider, but as though being an outsider pushed people away. Pushed them out to live on their own in the wild. It was silent, heavy, the sun so low dark shadows crept onto the boy's face and pulled out his features. Eventually, the boy looked up, and stepped forward, extending a hand.

"I'm Warren." He said, just distant enough where Daryl would have to move to reach him, just out of hurting range. They weren't there just yet.

"Daryl." And Daryl reached out, and they shook hands, an old custom he'd almost forgotten was a thing people did. No one shook hands anymore, they were too busy holding guns. "It's gettin' dark, you have somewhere you're stayin'? I won't tell nobody."

"Yeah." Warren nodded, stepping back slightly. "I can show you, if you want." He nodded, like he was willing this on himself. "Besides, you'll need a place to sleep. I know they close their doors pretty early." He nodded again, bigger. "And I'd like the company."

"Yeah." Daryl smiled, lifting his crossbow from the ground and shouldering it. "That'd be fun." He liked the idea of spending time away from Alexandria. It felt nice, being out in the forest again. Even if this kid was holed up in a tiny cave, it would be better than trying a bed again. He would never get used to beds. They were too soft, didn't support him enough. He paused, noticing a small wet patch forming on Warren's shirt. It was dark, and it stuck his shirt to his chest awkwardly. "Uh, you got somethin'... " He pointed to the place.

Warren looked down at himself, and pressed two fingers to the spot. They came back a odd, pinkish red. " _Fuck_."


	3. Night

"You bleeding?" Daryl was immediately concerned. Injuries out in the wild were pretty serious most of the time, especially if Warren didn't have access to medical supplies. No matter how bad the Walker virus was, it was imperative that every person kept in mind the fact that Walker bites weren't the only things that could kill them. Anything from an untreated spider bite to a mild untreated cold could sprout complications and send even the strong into a three-by-six pit of mud and earth.

"I'm fine." Warren wiped his fingers on a tree, pressing his other hand to the wet spot. "It's nothing. C'mon." He was resolute, and once he began walking, Daryl could do little but follow. He wished he could lead the other back to Alexandria, but he knew better. There was more he needed to know, first, before he forced them together unceremoniously. Because he would, in the end, he knew he would. He already enjoyed Warren's company - out in the open, with no social pretenses, no conspiracies, no underhanded gun-waving, just a hunter facing a hunter, a jumpy deer facing a semi-friendly dog - and he wasn't going to be forced to leave the kid behind, not in any circumstances.

It was hard to read what direction they were heading at first, as the sun was entirely gone and the forest was shrouded in rich, dark tones. But eventually they came to an area where the canopy opened up, and the stars peeked through the trees. It was slightly west of Alexandria, and slightly north, and the stars were bright and unmarred. In the glow of the moon, Daryl finally caught sight of Warren's camp, and he was honestly surprised.

It was a large field, extending into the distance, the corn visible even from there. A small greenhouse with glass walls and an overly complicated looking irrigation system sat right in front of them, full to the brim with plants. Green strawberries and unripe tomatoes and other vegetables were gathered together in their own mini forest behind the glass. Besides that, there was... nothing. A set of wooden doors lead deep into the earth, and a two small concrete blocks peered from the earth, with windows into _something_. Warren went straight for the doors, hefting one open, and disappearing inside. Where ever Warren lived, it was apparently underground.

Daryl approached the doors, testing their resistance. They were wood, with a metal plate on the inside that had a heavy duty bar lock. Below them, concrete stairs went down a short distance. He stepped down them, bending down so as not to slam his head on the ceiling that dipped drastically in front of him, slamming the heavy door behind him. The stairs were short, and ended in a wall, with a small table at the very bottom of the stairs. There was a bin underneath, with weapons inside.

"Put your crossbow in the bin!" He heard Warren's voice from the depths of the hall, and narrowed his eyes. The hall was small, and dark, and had two obvious doors before ending in an open room. Apparently, the lack of the clatter of a weapon in the bin was apparent, because Warren continued. "Trust me on this, your crossbow wouldn't do well one-v-one-ing the concrete walls! You can grab it at any point, I'm not taking it from you!"

Eventually, Daryl obliged, but begrudgingly. Warren was right, of course; he could tell if he tried to carry anything down the hall he would knock it into the walls. He almost had to turn sideways to even navigate the space himself. He took a step into the hall and peered into the doorway on the right, which housed a kitchen. It was obscenely small, barely enough room for one person to stand between the counters, with one of the windows he'd spotted above the sink. He stepped inside, pulling open a cabinet curiously. "You ever gonna tell me why you don't live in Alexandria?" He called, trying to be casual. He knew he was prodding a secret when he asked, and he knew not to push too hard if Warren resisted. But if anyone was to ever trust the kid, they'd need to know what happened, and maybe if he was gentle Warren would give up the info on his own. As he spoke, Daryl peered into the empty cabinets with narrowed eyes. There were maybe a few cans, a pot or two, but the place was bare, which was surprising for how cramped it was.

When no reply came, Daryl stepped into the hall again, peering into the other doorway almost across the hall. It was a bathroom, with a tiny shower, a toilet, and a sink. The cabinet above the sink was open, and mostly bare, an empty bottle and a mostly gone tube of toothpaste the only contents. "You said they'd wanna find you or somthin'." Daryl added, stepping back into the hall. The only other door was the one on the end, and it had no door, just the frame. He stepped forward, peering in.

Warren was standing next to a bed that took up most of the space, shirt rolled up, putting bandages on his chest. There were long, red scars there, puffy and strange looking, one a little wet. He was wrapping these in gauze and tape, barely paying attention. "You get into it with them or somethin?" Daryl asked, and the words were so loud they scared Warren, who nearly dropped the tape he was holding as he squeaked in surprise.

"N-No." Warren pulled his shirt down almost frantically, embarrassed. "I don't-let's, uh, do something else." He forced out, throwing the bandages on the bed and rooting around in a drawer. Daryl leaned in the doorway casually, watching the small figure dig around aimlessly for several minutes.

"Like what?" Daryl asked, taking his eyes from Warren to scan the room. There was the other window, and there were several old wood pieces stuffed in the room it was almost impossible that someone could live in here. He wasn't going to ask how they managed to fit a queen mattress through that hallway and get it into the room, but they did.

"Poker?" Warren pulled out a set of slightly beaten cards. "I'm not a good player, but it'll pass the time well enough. We just... don't have anything to bet with." Warren shrugged, toeing the medical kit under the bed deftly as he spoke. Daryl sort of narrowed his eyes at the idea, thinking for a long moment. Warren was obviously one for secrets, but he also seemed fairly plyable. It seemed he was almost just more embarrassed at the things he had going on - those bandages, for instance, which, if they hadn't looked like old scars, Daryl would have said something - but maybe, if Daryl could use the poker as a medium, he could find out some things.

"I've got an idea." Daryl said, shifting off the doorway and stepping into the room. "We bet with stories. You lose, you tell the number of stories you bet." He shrugged, trying to not be too hostile looking, hands in his pockets. "You can find out 'bout me, 'n I can find out 'bout you."

Warren considered the idea. Eventually, he nodded. He apparently didn't think he was that bad at poker, or he had a lot of stories. Outside, thunder rumbled deeply in the distance, disturbing the peace of night around them. "We have time now, I guess." Warren chuckled, looking up at the tiny window as rain began to patter onto the ground. "The, uh, the only place to sit is the bed. Sorry." Daryl didn't care, flopping down on the heavy mattress. "Five card?"

"Mm. Blackjack." Daryl said. "Not as many cards. Won't lose any." He chuckled, swiping the deck from Warren's hands in a deft motion and shuffling. "'Less you think you're shit at blackjack."

"I can play blackjack." Warren puffed himself up a little, letting out the breath in a half chuckle as well. "You wanna play until we're tired, and then tell stories? So we don't get distracted."

"Sure." Daryl shrugged. "Whatever."

~o~o~

It didn't take them too long to realize Warren was fairly shitty at Blackjack. When they finished, and both decided they were done playing, Warren was in the hole five stories, and Daryl only down one. Warren slipped back on the bed, laying down and staring at the window where the rain had begun to patter against the dark background of night.

"I guess you want me to start?" He asked, softly, lulled by the sound of rain into a welcomed contentment. Playing cards - and specifically losing at cards - took a lot out of him, Daryl noticed, slipping back on the bed as well so he could also recline. He didn't respond, just staring, taking in Warren's features properly as he could in the dim light. Not just the general sweep of features he'd absorbed before, but the details - the exact tone of Warren's skin, which was more a honey tan than anything, or the build of his face, with a slightly flatter nose and a smooth, semi-round jaw. The way he reclined back on his arms like a Greek on a chaise-lounge, the way his lithe, tanned, almost dark fingers seemed tense even when unclenched, the moderate plumpness of his lips. Eventually, Warren turned to look at Daryl, lips pursed in mild frustration. "Yes or no?"

"Yeah, yeah." Daryl hummed, distracted. Warren reminded him of people he'd met before, before the Walkers started, but he was hard pressed to remember exactly whom. Women, mostly, he could recall, very feminine. Warren huffed slightly, laying down proper, looking at his hands above his head.

"Okay so... I guess, since I've got a lot to talk about, I might as well just tell you everything up to this point. That should be enough stories, I think." He inspected his fingers in the dim light, quiet for a moment. "My dad built this place. Like, laid the rebar, poured the cement kind of built this place. He was a war vet, Vietnam when he was younger and a tour in Iran, which was super brief." He paused, sitting up and heading to a nearby desk, rummaging for something in the drawers. "I have a photo of him somewhere. I was his first kid with mom, and I had two sisters, twins, that were eight." He pulled a battered photo and shoved it towards Daryl, who took it gently. Photos were cherished possessions in the apocalypse, and he didn't want to damage it. "This is from when we went to Disney when the twins were five. My dad's name was Jerome, my mom was Denise, and then the twins were Lela and Lesia." He chuckled.

Daryl took the pause to look at the photo. In it, a man and a woman posed together, supporting two young children, and a third posed between them. The man was obviously Warren's father, Jerome - dark skin, almost blue in places, and steel gray eyes - and was smiling brightly, sporting a Mickey Mouse hat on a head with very little hair. The woman beside him, Daryl figured, was Warren's mother, Denise - a petite, strawberry blond haired woman with pale skin, freckles, and large blue eyes. She looked elated, the happiest a mother could be, holding happy, bubbly children. The twins were dark, like their father, one with blond hair and one with dark brown, both worn in tight Micky-esque pigtails on top of their head. And then there was Warren, posed in the middle, forcing a smile in a sweatshirt in what was obviously very hot weather.

"Dad was always good to us, always joyful and playful. But he was also strange sometimes. The war fucked him up, Mom said. He would sometimes go out for hours with a rifle and come back dirty and tired, and say nothing about it. I think he was convinced they wanted to take him back out there, and the government was coming for him, and that we weren't safe. That's why he built this place, not 'cause he thought we'd all die in an apocalypse, but because he wanted us to have a safe space." Warren shifted to sit by Daryl, taking the photo in his own hands. He ran a thumb gently over the face of his father, the cracked paper photo crinkling under his fingers slightly.

"He taught us things, things which, when I was a kid, I thought were just a game, but really meant something. He taught me how to hunt, how to use a bow and arrow, because guns were too noisy and too easy to misuse. He only used guns himself because he was trained, he said, trained in the art of being too scared to hurt someone, but we weren't allowed to use any of them. I thought it was fun, but it was practical, and pragmatic. The only guns we were allowed were flares, and only when we were hunting. He said only use them if we were hurt, and he would find us. I never had to use it." Warren sighed, flopping back onto the bed.

"He built he house we lived in. He was good with his hands, good at making things. Mom encouraged him, because that's what she was good at. She was a nurse, a pediatric nurse, and her strong suit was taking care of special needs kids. She was good at that kind of thing, and she was good at taking care of us. She and Dad were good together, and worked well together. She made good food. She was patient, and when Dad insisted that he build an underground bunker for us, she made sure he didn't starve while doing it. The farming was her idea. She told him if he wanted to live in God Knows Where, they would need some crops. So they picked up farming as a hobby." Warren chuckled. "Mom called it intense gardening." Here, Daryl chuckled.

"What about your sisters?" He asked, softly, after a moment of quiet. Not that Warren needed prompting, but he honestly wanted to know.

"I don't think I've ever had better friends, and they were eight." Warren chuckled. "Lela was a genius, I swear to god. She kept making things out of legos that were one set of wires short of being a robot. Math was her forte; when I was homeschooled, sometimes I'd get her to do my algebra for me. Lesia went more for art stuff, and it was hard to tell if she really liked art, or if she just wanted to be different. Sometimes, I think being a twin got to her a bit, and I think she strove for independence most of all." Warren sighed, turning over on the bed and gently drawing on the bedspread. He was sad, now, and it was easy to tell.

"What happened to 'um?" Daryl prompted, softly, knowing it was coming next but speaking anyway. Warren was quiet for another long moment before he spoke again, soft now, less excitement in his voice than before.

"Dad heard about the breakout first. Mom insisted we didn't use the bunker yet, that it was nothing, that the news said it was some Ebola strain or something. Dad gave us flares anyway, said to use them if we were bit, because he'd heard from some sources of his - he'd never tell us where, but he had proven these good sources in the past - that once you were bitten by one of the victims, you were gone too. He said fire them if we were bit, because... because the rest of the family needed to know you were too far gone to save." Warren paused a long moment, and Daryl stayed silent, watching the sadness encompass Warren's face entirely. "I remember Dad woke me up late one night and told me to run for the bunker, and I did. I ran hard. I had a lot of my things already there, because I could help dad sneak things out when Mom wasn't looking. He went back for Lela and Lesia and Mom. And I looked back at the house, and saw... three flares. One right after the other right after the other." Warren clutched at the bedspread. "And there was a fourth, I know there was one, but I never saw the flare itself."

"How?" Daryl sat up slightly, leaning over a little, unsure how to comfort the obviously stricken boy.

"The house caught fire." Warren wiped at his eyes. "I watched it burn to the ground, and then I locked the doors." He sat up suddenly, scrubbing at his face like it would make the tears that were forming stop. He hiccupped, rubbed at his eyes again, and shook his head. "I'm done. I'm done talking. You need to go." He shook his head, pushing Daryl away even as Daryl tried to reach forward to put a hand on Warren's shoulder.

Daryl didn't fight it, didn't question it. Warren was too bitter when he spoke, too on edge, and he knew better than to fight against it. He got up, stepping back, letting Warren have his space. "You sure?" He asked. He knew the answer, but it was better than lingering awkwardly.

"Go." Warren snapped, rubbing at his eyes. "Just go."

And Daryl did. The rain was cold on his hot skin as he left, but being kicked out into the torrent in the middle of the night did not deter him.

He had some questions he needed to answer.


	4. All The Wrong Questions

The doors were closed on Alexandria when he returned, but he didn't terribly care. The gate was fairly easy to scale, and he slipped over the top and dropped into the street quietly. There were no alarms, no warnings, and the watch guard in the tower apparently saw nothing, as he said nothing to alert the rest of the town. If Daryl wasn't a friend, Alexandria would have been in trouble, because he could have broken in, killed people and escaped pretty quickly.

He needed to tell Rick about this before Alexandria got horribly wrecked.

He raced down the streets, pounding up the stairs of Aaron's abode. He nearly ran full force into the door, instead, slamming his fists on the frame. It was the kind of noise that could wake the dead, and he didn't care. He needed answers, and he couldn't bother to wait around until people woke up to ask questions. He could hear someone stumbling down the stairs, nearly falling, and after a second with the lock Aaron threw open the door.

He paused a second, staring. Daryl was soaking wet, dripping onto his porch, tired, and obviously livid. "Daryl?" It was all he could think to say, since it took him a second to even start forming questions in his head to ask. He didn't get a chance to ask any of them, as Daryl pushed his way inside, not caring that he was dripping wet mud in the foyer. He let Aaron close the door, which was the polite thing to do - and it blocked out the enraged howl as the storm began to pick up outside. But as soon as the latch clicked, Daryl turned on him, getting up in his face, the cork on his emotional bottle having finally popped itself.

"Why the _fuck_ doesn't he live here?!" Daryl asked, loudly, face hot and wet and red. "Every time I bring it up he gets all _skittish_ like a beat _dog_ , 'n he won't tell me _shit_ , but he ain't the kind t'start _nothing_. You said, _you told me_ , you thought I could tell who was good people. You told me you thought I could tell. 'N I ain't fuckin' doubting that, but when I find this fucking _kid_ out in the middle of fuckin' _nowhere_ , 'n he's so _scared_ of this place he _stabs me_ 'cause he thinks I was sent to _find him_ , I gotta ask - if you're so god damn good at knowin' who's good people, then _what the fuck_ did you do t'him?"

Aaron was quiet for a long time. It didn't matter Daryl had him almost backed against the door, nose to nose, his pajamas soaked through the front from where Daryl had gotten close enough to literally touch him. He was still, and then he sighed. "Come, sit down." He gestured to the kitchen, and the wooden chairs at the bar. Daryl stepped back, letting Aaron move into the kitchen, and eventually, Daryl followed. He slumped into the chair, putting his arms on the bar. He could tell he was going to get _something_ out of Aaron, even if it was very little. "Tea?" Aaron offered, holding up a mug he was using for himself. Daryl's halfhearted grunt and shake of the head no was enough of an answer.

Eventually, Aaron finished fixing himself tea, and sat down beside Daryl. It had been quiet the entire time, steeped in a pregnant silence, the only sounds the boiling of water and the steady drip of Daryl's boots onto the tile floor of the kitchen. "So." Aaron nodded, sipped his tea - from the face he made it was obviously too hot, and he was somewhere between pain from burning his tongue and vague distress that he couldn't use it to fill awkward silences for a while yet - and set it down. "You met Warren." He nodded again, pushing the handle of his cup around.

"Yeah." Daryl wanted to fill the silence, fill it with anything, just to keep Aaron talking. "What happened?" And he wasn't livid anymore, just curious and worried, and this seemed to put Aaron at a little more ease.

"He, uh, we found him not too long after we got the walls finished. He was alone, and scared, of course, but he knew how to farm and I knew that would be important later in the life of the community. Farming is a necessity for sustainable living. So I brought him back, and he went through the, uh, the videotaped interview, and well... that's when it went south." Aaron stared at his tea for a long moment, the steam rising slowly between his hands. "He, uh. You're supposed to tell Deanna everything, during those, and it was... It was a lot more unforgiving when we started it. Any secrets, any at all, you had to tell her. She'd ask about your past and make you recount it in full detail for the camera... now she's a little more lax with how it works. It's more of an interview and less of a... of a interrogation." Aaron shook his head and buried himself in his tea, like he was trying to drink to forget.

"So what, he got some secret? Everybody got secrets." Daryl grumbled. "Not worth being honest anymore, not when everyone's fightin' everyone else."

"There are some secrets that are... worse than others." Aaron eventually replied. "He, uh. He told the camera some things, and he tried to tell them in confidence, and Deanna even hid his tape, but the rest of the residents wanted to see it, especially after she hid it away. And when they did..." Aaron trailed off, shook his head, and stood up, heading to the sink.

"What?" Daryl was impatient, the answer was right there, on the tip of Aaron's tongue.

"It's not my place to tell you." Aaron busied himself washing his mug. "I, at least, wish to keep Warren's secret's confidential. If he wanted, he would tell you. But it's not my place to dredge up the past." Aaron paused, hands braced on the sink. "I've just... I want to forget it happened; I want to put the past in the _past_ , because he's already gone, and there's nothing I can do about it." He shook his head again. "I'm sorry."

Daryl stood up, nearly knocking the chair over in his suddenness, but even the show of sudden strength didn't seem like it would budge Aaron. He was steadfast, and resolute, and he eyed Daryl with an inner, unbending strength. "I'm going back to bed. I suggest you do the same." Aaron nodded, and headed for the stairs, leaving Daryl to let himself out. He paused there, still dripping in the kitchen, before heading out the door.

It was still raining, but he didn't care. He meandered, less of a rush than the first time, the water soaking him through. He wasn't tired, and he wasn't going to sleep. It was hard, honestly. He'd been so close, but he couldn't fault Aaron. If it had to do with something Warren wanted secret, it was almost noble for Aaron to keep it so close. It was still frustrating as fuck, though. It was tantalizing, now, because he'd had a taste of it.

He pulled out a crumpled, almost empty pack of cigarettes, and struggled to keep them dry as he retreated onto the porch where they were staying. He sat down on the raining, lit the cigarette, and leaned on the column, thinking.

He had a lot to think about. Should he bother Warren again? Did Warren even want to see him? He wasn't sure, honestly. Every time he'd met Warren, he'd left with Warren upset or frightened. But they had played cards, and while Warren wasn't _bad_ , it was obvious they weren't playing his game, and it said a lot that he was a good sport about it. But that wasn't enough for Daryl to really decide whether or not Warren enjoyed his company. And even if Warren did, even if Daryl did go back, would he want to explain? Would he ever tell Daryl what happened? And what would Daryl do if he didn't?

Daryl sighed out smoke, fishing out another pack of cigarettes, as he had finished the first. He remembered watching Warren tell stories. Watching the way his face lit up when he spoke about his family, the way his strong features seemed soft in the rain light. He remembered how _happy_ Warren looked. And he thought, and he remembered Warren with the same look _losing_ at cards. It wasn't even that he was winning, Daryl realized. It was that he enjoyed playing. And it was hard to believe Warren enjoyed playing a game he was bad at, so that left literally one option - he was happy to be playing a game _with Daryl_. It wasn't a certainty, but it wasn't wrong, either.

So Daryl had a choice - he could pull back and give Warren his space, understanding he may never see the kid again at that rate; or, he could push forward, harder, spend time with Warren and hope he could get something out of it. It was a risk - pushing too hard could mean losing Warren as a companion forever, and Daryl didn't want that. He didn't want to hedge his bets and play a safe hand, he decided - he wanted to double down.

~o~o~

Rick noticed him on the porch a few hours later. Daryl had smoked through both his almost empty pack and half the second one while he thought. It was almost daylight, the red sky just starting to lighten above the treeline.

"Didn't sleep?" Rick asked, perching on the railing next to Daryl. The rain had stopped, but Daryl's clothes were still soaked through. It was sort of obvious, honestly. Daryl didn't care, putting out his last cigarette on the railing. "How long have you been out here?"

"That kid that stabbed me lived here once." Daryl said, suddenly, and he didn't need to look to see Rick tense up. He was on guard, this mystery stabber now a turned away recruit a scary thought, as no one was more likely to try and take a place than someone turned away from it. "S'okay though. He don't seem like a threat." Daryl turned to face Rick, nodding. "He ain't gonna just up and take it."

"You know why he doesn't live here anymore?" Rick asked, softly, still wary. Daryl shrugged.

"Talked to Aaron for a bit, don't got too much to go with. I'm gonna go try 'n find out from the kid. Apparently somethin' went sour though I don't think it was the kid's fault." Daryl hopped off the railing, leaning on the column.

"Why?" Rick stood as well, easy stance mirroring Daryl's ease. "What are you trying to get out of this, Daryl? He's just a kid." And to this, Daryl shrugged. He honestly didn't know where his endgame was headed, and he honestly didn't want to think too hard on it. Right now, he had a goal, and that's all he needed. He was silent, and Rick seemed to understand. "But you trust him?"

"Yeah." Daryl nodded. "He ain't dangerous, and he didn't do nothing as far as I can tell. I wanna find out what happened, so I can bring him back here. He don't deserve to live out there alone, not when we're right here." Rick watched him, and nodded, and didn't ask. He didn't need to. He trusted Daryl, and somewhere in his head, he knew. He knew when he looked at Daryl that this wasn't just some random kid that Daryl just wanted to save. He knew there was something else there, and he knew better than to ask questions.

"Don't take too many risks." Rick replied, putting a hand on Daryl's shoulder tightly. Daryl quirked a smile, because of course he was going to take as many risks as possible, because it was worth it, and Rick knew this just as much as Daryl did. But he had to say it all the same. "And don't keep smoking those all at once. They'll kill you, y'know." Rick chuckled, and Daryl couldn't help but join him, putting the pack away in his pocket.

He could smoke later. Now, he needed a nap and dry clothes. He had risks to take.


	5. Chicken Soup

His nap was only thirty minutes. He was antsy, and didn't want to sleep too long. He didn't really need to sleep that long, honestly - a quick nap like that would last him the rest of the day, as long as he slept well the next night. The sun was entirely up when he got up, but most of the others were still asleep. Rick was already out patrolling, as Rick usually did, and the house was quiet around him. It had been a long time since he'd been in a real house, and the sheer quietness of it was discomforting. He was used to trailers, and woods; floorboards that spoke to you when you stepped on them, creaked balefully at you when you tried to sneak; sticks and twigs and branches crackling under foot, birds calling and squirrels scrabbling to get out of your way. This place was still, so very still, and Daryl moved through it like he was being hunted, toeing every step carefully.

He padded into the kitchen, intent on finding what little medical supplies had been left with them, as he needed to patch up his wound. He paused in the doorway, hearing the quiet clink of pots and pans and dishes. Someone was awake. He shifted, awkward, clutching at his dirty, wet shirt like he should put it on. But he wasn't going to put something that full of mud over his now open wounds, as he had already taken off the bandages. He considered just going back to his own bed, tucked away in a part of the main room no one ever visited, and just getting his old bandages again until he could get the new ones.

He didn't really get a choice in the matter. The clatter picked up, and Daryl could tell immediately it was a signal that whomever it was knew he was there. He cleared his throat, stepping out into the room like he never stopped. Carol, who was shifting around the cookware like she intended to make something, chuckled, and immediately Daryl was more at ease. "Y'know where the bandages are?" He asked, staying back from the kitchen proper, because looking for them intently would just get him in her way. She put the pots down on the counter, and went digging under the stove.

"I put them down here, since we weren't storing anything under the oven anyway." She smiled, pulling out the miniature first aid kit and handing it to him. "You going back out?" She asked, putting her hands on her hips in a way that said she knew something. Daryl grunted a affirmative, sitting down at the counter so he could dig through the kit. Carol crossed behind him, picking up the disgusting shirt he put down and shifting it aside to sit next to him. Daryl sighed, already knowing she was there to help him clean the wound and bandage himself, as his wound was awkward and he couldn't really do it himself, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Look." Carol was firm when she spoke, but she had a smile, and a gentle touch. "If you're going back out there to see that boy again, I need you to make me a promise."

"You ain't gonna ask me t'be safe, are ya?" Daryl asked, half sarcastic, pulling a smile himself even though the pain of the cleaner was itching at his side.

"No." Carol chided with a half chuckle. "I want you to promise me I get to meet him." She looked at Daryl over his shoulder, an expecting mother tending a child. Daryl frowned. Carol was treating this meeting like Daryl was some love struck teenager, but when he expressed this in his face, the response was still the same - a motherly eyebrow raise. It was like she knew something he didn't, like she knew he had different intentions - which he didn't, god dammit! - and like she was _amused_ by the puppy love she was reading on him. It was infuriating, but he couldn't be too mad, because it was Carol, and he couldn't be mad at her affection. Even if it was based on dumb assumptions. " _And_ that you'll wear clean clothes. And not just the shirt." Carol added, tying off the bandage, making Daryl grunt slightly with the pressure on the wound.

"This ain't a date." Daryl grumbled, reaching for his shirt. Carol pulled it away, tucking it behind her. "Hey."

"Clean shirt." Carol pointed him in the direction of the laundry room, just down the hall. "And pants. _And_ underwear." She smiled, still amused by his disgruntled attitude towards all this. "If you're going out there to see him again, he needs to know you're not living in a cave somewhere. You want him to trust you, right?" Carol smiled, and god, her argument was too good. Sometimes Carol was just too good at reading a situation, and Daryl couldn't help but appreciate it - and agree.

"Yeah." He eventually said, his voice already conceding.

"Well, you have to look trustworthy, then." Carol stepped forward, quiet, cautious, sincere. "If you look like you crawled out of a sewer, he won't want to be around you as much, and you can't get him to trust you. If there's anything I learned, it's that people fall for your presentation _all the time_." She whispered, like this was some secret, and boy, it was. It was everything Carol was, wrapped up in a single piece of advice. She dressed well, Daryl knew, and even though he thought it was shit, the people here liked her. She wasn't pulling at straws, this was her _life_ , and Daryl respected that.

"Okay." He nodded, speaking softly. He didn't need to say more, because they both just knew. There was an aura of respect and appreciation between the two of them, much stronger than a person could hope to obtain with someone they weren't dating. They could just tell things about each other, read each other, and just know.

"There's some pants and a new shirt I know I just washed that should fit you pretty well." Carol smiled, leading him back into the laundry room. There was a hamper of clean clothes, and a small folded pile she had been working on in her spare time. She dug for a moment, pulling out a pair of men's jeans, a slightly dingy white tank top, and a faded, blue plaid collared shirt. "The jeans might be a little big, but I can scrounge up a belt if you need it. I think this tank-top was yours at one point, and..." Carol paused, looking at the shirt. One of the sleeves had fallen off, and the other was hanging limp, half unstitched. "Well, I was going to say you'd be warmer in the rain with this on, but I guess the dryer didn't take too kindly to the wear and tear it went through."

"S'okay." Daryl chuckled, taking the shirt and ripping off the sleeve in one deft motion. "Woulda been too tight anyway." He put the shirt with the other things Carol had rounded up, reaching out for her and bringing her into a soft hug. He liked being close to Carol - she smelled like baked goods, even when she hadn't touched an oven in months, and her hair was silky against his face. She made him feel safe, and protected, and honestly, that's all he wanted. Maybe, he thought, he could make Warren feel just as safe if they met. He'd like that.

After a second, Carol pulled away, holding Daryl's shoulders with her hands and keeping him at arm's length. "Before you put those on, you need a shower." She smiled, bundling the clothes into his hands and pushing him out towards the bathroom downstairs. "You won't be any more trustworthy in new clothes if you smell like a skunk."

"I don't smell like a skunk." Daryl batted back the insult, heading for the bathroom anyway. He wondered, briefly, if he could just hang out in the bathroom until he was "done" and then change, but Carol shattered that thought in a second.

"Don't try and fake it - you're the only one here who hasn't showered yet, and it'll be good for the community _and_ your friend." He could hear her smile when she shouted none the less, and he knew she wasn't trying to force him to do anything that was unnecessary. Besides, he thought, stepping into the cramped bathroom, he did miss hot water.

~o~o~

Carol had fixed him eggs and toast for his trouble, so the shower didn't seem like that much of a punishment. Daryl came out of the bathroom looking much better than he did going in, the drip in his hair from clean water, and the dark tinge from his skin slightly lessened. The pants _were_ a little large, a little saggy, and while Daryl stuffed his face, Carol found him a belt.

"I feel like I'm goin' to prom." Daryl muttered, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder.

"Look at it this way, you won't have to shower again for a long time unless you want to." Carol laughed, putting a comforting hand on his back. "You remember what you said."

"Yeah, I know." Daryl chuckled, heading down the stairs two at a time, the clean weird under the shirt. "Not gonna be me who decides it, though. He's pretty skittish. Don't like this place." Daryl nodded, and cast off a wave, leaving Carol in her sweater on the porch, and feeling far too closed in behind the walls.

Once he got outside, he felt much better. The blue blended in with the green, and he didn't feel like he stuck out anymore, like the sheen of his clean skin gave off a reflection in the daylight. He felt at home, and the haze of pollen and dander and nature in the air settled on his skin and he felt _right_. He was careful, making his way through the rain swollen underbrush, gentle with his new clothes, like if he touched something wrong he'd ruin the whole charade.

He reached the hidden doors pretty quickly, following the path through the woods he'd nearly memorized by now. They were closed, and the windows were dark. Daryl stalked the premises quietly, checking in the windows, seeing the one at the end was lit with a light, and peering into it. Warren was inside, rummaging around, but definitely awake. Daryl couldn't see a whole lot, but he knew he would be answered if he knocked. So he did. He went right around to the doors and he set his boot to the wood and it was loud enough to call anything around right to him.

The door creaked open a moment later, and Warren peered out like there was something outside that would kill him. He pushed the door open just slightly, just enough, to stick his head out. "Yeah?" He asked, and he was hiding, and it pushed a button in the wrong place.

"Heard some shit." Daryl said, quick, sticking a boot into the creak of the door to keep it open even if Warren tried to force it close. He could tell the boy was trying to hide away, looking fragile and upset. "Talked to Aaron a bit, said you lived in Alexandria, said somethin' happened." He bent down, kneeling at the door. "Wouldn't say what. Said that was yours to tell."

He didn't get a response, besides the tugging of the door closed. It slammed on his foot, making him yelp and pull back, and he heard it latch once it closed. "You _fuck!_ " He shouted, pacing outside the door like a dog on the hunt. God, _fuck_. He went from mildly irked to livid in ten seconds. "You _fuck!_ " He kicked at the door, slammed it hard with his boot, and it bounced slightly. He paced, dragging a line in the dirt in front of the door. "Just wanted t'talk t'you, can't you see that? Just want some fuckin' _answers_! Ain't gotta say _shit_ , but don't leave me hangin' when I ask questions! Just wanna find out what th'fuck happened!" Daryl huffed, kicking at a rock and sending it flying, only making his squished toes hurt more. "I made a promise!" He snapped. "I don't break promises!"

He stilled, watching the doors, hearing nothing. He growled, grumbled, and let his grumpy disposition release itself on a nearby tree, bloodying his knuckles on the hard bark. Once he was thoroughly finished, he plopped down on the ground outside the doors.

"I ain't mad." He said, once he was settled. His voice was soft, gentle. "I just... I ain't mad or nothing." He paused, picking at the scabs on his knuckles. There went his presentation. He sighed. He might as well wait there, honestly, he thought. Warren would have to leave at some point, and it was worth waiting. "I'm just... gonna wait here then." Daryl called. He knew Warren could hear him. "Come out whenever."

And he settled down on the ground, clean pants be damned. He'd wait forever, if it meant Warren would eventually explain.

.


	6. Pride and Prejudice

It was about an hour before the doors swung open. Daryl hopped to his feet, attempting to brush the dirt from his pants. He'd been playing around in the dirt next to him, drawing figures with a branch - Merle, with his blade hand, Carol, a cookie, Warren. He gently brushed over these with his foot, as they were bad and needed to never be seen by eyes other than his own. Warren didn't seem to notice as he stepped out, closing the door behind him. He was wrapped up in a jacket over his shirt, and he looked pale, brown skin a little ashy. Daryl stepped up to him quickly, now worried. Did he do something because Daryl was angry? Warren didn't look the peak of health.

"I need to go hunting." Warren said, letting Daryl hover awkwardly at arm's length. He _sounded_ sick, too, and his eyes betrayed him worst of all. There are people who, when they're not feeling well, cannot fake it as their eyes look tired and worn and frail, and Warren was one of these people. He looked like he may collapse at any moment. "I don't have any food left, so I need to bring back something to eat." He cleared his throat, tried to make himself sound less lethargic and sick.

"You want me t'help?" Daryl asked. Warren without food was a starving young man, and that didn't sit well with Daryl. He didn't want the kid to starve outside the walls when help was so close. It didn't matter what happened, and answers could wait. "You stay here 'n I can bring you back somethin'."

Warren paused, surprised at the gesture. "I was going to make you a deal, actually." He smiled, and it was weak. "You can probably tell I don't feel well - I think I ate bad canned something, I don't know - and I can't carry anything heavy. I was _going_ to offer you answers if you helped me." He smiled, a little brighter, and a little more grateful. "Though, it's nice to know you'll help even if I didn't. Not many people are that kind."

"Not many people got nothin' t'lose." Daryl replied. "I'll help you get somethin' big, and once we get there you can decide whether or not you tell me anythin'. No strings attached." Daryl nodded. He didn't care about answers, and he didn't want to push for them. He just wanted Warren okay. He was jittery, hovering and worried, wanting to press his palms to Warren's face to see if he had a fever, if he had chills, if he was warm and cold at the same time. Infections were horrible, by yourself, and untreated could kill, and even the common cold or flu or sore throat could take down someone at this rate. Even if Warren felt well enough to carry his own buck, Daryl would insist on going - sickness slowed reaction times, and that could kill a man out here now.

"Thank you." Warren was relieved, shifting his quiver onto his back. "You're a good guy, you know that?" He chuckled, starting off towards the woods. "I can count the number of people that would help me right now on one hand."

"How many s'that?" Daryl asked, matching stride easily, Warren's short legs meaning Daryl had to slow his pace to not leave him behind.

"One." Warren laughed, pausing a second to shift his bow onto his back. It was a new bow, black, thick, hefty - a new compound model, with pulleys and gears, unlike his old red one - and he fit it around his shoulders, leaving his hands free.

"New bow?" Daryl inquired. The forest was quiet around them as they walked, he noticed, and there weren't any Walkers. There were some outside their camp, he knew, but there weren't any here, and this put him on edge. None in sight meant something was keeping them out, or there was a large group among the trees.

"It's my dad's. I use it for bigger game. Both bows belonged to my dad, actually, which is part of the problem. He was a much bigger guy than me, so he got bigger bows to suit him. The red one has such a strong draw weight that I can't make it reach full draw without breaking my wrist - which I have done, by the way, a few years ago - so I can't get the most out of it." Warren lifted his right wrist, which didn't look broken, but made a lot of loud crackles when he twisted it gently. "It pushed back so hard on this wrist that I broke it in four places and needed enough pins that I can't go through a metal detector anymore." Warren chuckled. "Not that I'd need to, but."

"You're left handed?" Daryl asked, miming a bow action, with his left hand drawing it back and the right holding it. Warren nodded, lifting the bow off his shoulders again and coming to a halt in a small clearing of trees.

"Yeah. Dad was left handed too, which is why I can use his bows easy." Warren held out the black compound bow, letting Daryl look at it. The finish was pristine, and it was obvious Warren took a lot of time making sure it was well cared for. It had _To Jerome_ engraved on the handle. "This one dad fixed up for me specifically." Warren said, crossing his arms. "He made it so the let off is enough where I can get a full draw on it. Basically, he fixed it so when I get the string all the way back, the pressure it releases from the pulleys is _just_ enough so I'm at max for what my wrist can do now without it pushing it overboard, so I can use it to hunt proper game like deer. The red I can only get about half way back before my wrist starts to hurt, so I hunt small game like rabbits with it, since I don't need a full draw to pierce rabbit hide." He chuckled.

"Your dad was good with bows." Daryl commented, handing the equipment back to Warren, who re-shouldered it before continuing on. "Seems like your dad was good at a lotta things."

"Yeah." Warren smiled, proud almost of his father, or his connection to his father, Daryl wasn't sure. "You might wanna shoulder your crossbow for a hot second, we're coming up on my wall and I don't want you to break anything on it." Warren said. Daryl held tight to his crossbow, wary of the command, as they approached what he realized quickly was Warren's wall.

It was a barrier, five feet tall, of barbed wire and string. It wrapped around trees and extended in both directions, fencing them in. String was laced between the layers of wire, and on the strings were cans that rattled softly in a breeze. "Huh. You made this?"

"Took me months. It's still not finished - I was gonna wrap it all the way around, even keep out Alexandrians, but I ran out of cans." Warren chuckled, weaker from the walking and talking now. "There's a way to crawl through it, but it's not quick. You'll need your hands, which is why I said to shoulder your crossbow." He adjusted his own things, made sure they were secure on his back, and approached a section of the wall near a large, dead oak tree. "I'll go through first, so you can see how to get through, and then I'll cover you, okay?"

"Right." Daryl lifted his crossbow to his eyes, wary. If Warren was covering him from that side, he'd do his best to cover Warren from behind the wall. He was still watching, though, because he knew better than to just blindly stumble through it. Warren stepped up to the tree, pressing on flat palm to a wire just at his eye height and lifting it maybe an inch. This left a gap big enough for him to step through. He gently bent down and moved through, pressing his back against the tree and shuffling to the other side, where he repeated the action, widening the gap on the other side and stepping through. It seemed simple enough, Daryl noted, giving Warren a moment to ready his bow before shouldering his own.

"The trick is staying up on the tree. I sort of Jacob's Laddered it a little, so the gap gets smaller the farther away from the tree you get." Warren chuckled. Daryl observed his form for a moment, standing on the other side of the wire. Even possibly ill, Warren was relaxed, his bow easy between his fingers, his left foot slightly back. There was something about this ease with the bow that intrigued Daryl, fascinated him and interested him in ways he hadn't found in people before. Other people might have added different adjectives to the observation - if it was someone else, they might have said they found Warren beautiful in that moment; statuesque; _dreamy_ \- but Daryl wasn't other people. If he did have those sorts of thoughts, he was yet to be aware of them, as he'd never considered Warren in such a way. But somewhere in the deep recesses of his subconscious, they were there, and he was able to recognize them without acknowledging them by thinking Warren was _fascinating_.

It didn't take long for Daryl to cross the wall himself. Knowing the trick, that it was widest at the point where the wire met the tree, made it an easy cross. But as he ducked out to the other side, he turned, looking it over. "How we gonna get a deer over this wall?" He asked.

"Either take it around to the gap, or toss it over the top." Warren chuckled. "It's slightly shorter and thinner in the middle, so just heaving it over the wall is an option." He shrugged. "We can get to that when we get there, though. I'll be surprised if we find anything heavy enough to even be a problem."

"You haven't seen buck here?" Daryl was somewhat appalled, because any regular sized male deer would be a hard thing to manhandle over the fencing, so he wasn't sure what Warren even thought they would find.

"Just the juveniles, a few doe." Warren shrugged. "I think it's because they don't recognize I'm a threat until I'm there. The big males know better." He spoke, lowering his voice as they started off into the woods proper. It felt more wild out there, less safe, and immediately Daryl was on guard. This was his home, and he knew as well as anyone his home could wreck them both very quickly. "Dad always used to use a tree-stand and just wait, so I never learned how to track anything. I'd use it, but the ladder collapsed and it's impossible to get up there now."

"Well, you're in luck." Daryl grinned, big and stupid and _god_ he shouldn't have felt this elated to be simply useful but he wasn't going to question the feeling. "My brother taught me how t'track game, before th'start of it. Walkers make it harder, but ain't that bad."

"Can you teach me?" Warren asked, bent low to mimic Daryl's low stance as they waded through thick underbrush, trying to be quiet amid the vines and leaves and sprouts. He was already letting Daryl take the lead, letting him move forward first, because Daryl was going to be the one to find dinner at this rate.

"Right now?" Daryl was slightly caught off guard. He'd never taught anyone how to track, and he wasn't sure where to start. But Warren nodded, and his eyes were big and curious and needy even though they still looked so tired, and Daryl couldn't tell that face no. "A'right." He bent down, squatting in the bushes. He wasn't sure how to show someone how to track, but he figured the easiest thing he could do was just _do it_ , and hope Warren picked it up. "First thing we gotta do is find evidence of a deer at all." Daryl explained, softly, starting forward again. The brush rustled around them as they moved, slowly, carefully, Daryl's head swiveling to check _everything_.

A rustle made them stop. He didn't need to look to know Warren had tensed, the small rabbit stillness evident without seeing it - he could just feel it in the air, the tension a high-strung thickness to the air around them. He listened, hearing the _thing_ come closer, and it was immediately apparent that it wasn't a deer. It was footsteps, unsteady, beating rhythmically against the leaves and grass, and the low, gurgling hiss of someone choking on their own blood and unable to care. Daryl stilled, feeling the pressure on his shoulder, the light touch of a hand bracing itself - Warren had strung his bow and was aiming it, unwaveringly, at the Walker's head, using Daryl's shoulder to help support his hand. He could feel the hand on his back shake, just slightly, and tried to still himself, match his breathing to Warren's. He trusted Warren, trusted the boy not to hurt him, and he knew if he was hurt it wouldn't be Warren's fault. He felt Warren's inhale and matched it, stilling his shoulders as he did so. In with Warren, out with Warren.

The arrow was silent when it left the bow, the only sound the slight brush of feathers against Daryl's leather vest. It whizzed forward, striking the Walker in the eye, sending it tumbling, crumpled in the grass. Immediately, the two were up, cautious now, and quiet, padding over to the Walker and retrieving the arrow, assuring each other it was hit and dead. The squelch of removing arrow from wet flesh was loud in the silence, and Warren winced at the sound, rubbing his arrow off on his pants. Daryl looked down at the Walker, the eye a mass of blood and tissue, torn through from the arrow's removal, and then he looked past the Walker's head.

"Warren." He gestured for the boy to bend down, shifting the head away slightly. Just underneath the shattered skull were tracks - large, split toe hooves, moving off into the forest. The spread between them was small. Daryl didn't need to speak to communicate the next step - follow. He could tell the deer in question had been moving slowly, as the tracks were even and closely spaced, and he followed them slowly. Warren watched from behind, eyes more up, looking for anything else that may surprise them. He seemed to appreciate the slow pace, Daryl noticed, as he was keeping up well and relaxed, even in the dense underbrush.

A firm hand pressed to his shoulder, and Daryl stopped, turning slightly. Warren's head was up, neck long, smelling the air, wide eyed stare so alert and rabbit scared that Daryl tensed. First came the smell, the heady, musky odor of fresh death, the hot copper and something _burning_ in the air that sent a chill up Daryl's spine. The fingers on his jacket tightened, and then he was hearing it, the deep rustle of leaves and heavy, uneven footsteps, the choking, garbled moans of the Undead. He reached out, instinctively, grabbing Warren gently by the shirt, unsure if he could keep up and unwilling to leave him behind. " _Move_." Daryl hissed, knowing they had the advantage, knowing that by tracking down wind they were more likely to stay hidden and knowing he needed to be _quiet_ or they'd lose that advantage.

He kept an eye on the trail - which, he noticed, started to pick up as they followed it, like it was running from Walkers just as much as they were - and kept himself low, moving quickly through the bushes. He only paused when he saw it, the heard of shambling bodies moving between the trees. He counted fifteen in all, which wasn't that bad. He was expecting a troupe of twenty or more, but fifteen wasn't too bad. That, and Warren was breathing heavy, the running taking it out of him, and it was taking most of the boy's efforts to hold in a cough. He pressed a hand to Warren's back - cold, surprisingly, though it was warm out and the boy was wearing a knit jacket and obviously sweating under the fabric - and caught his eyes, pulling his knife from his belt.

There was nothing left to do but fight.

Warren nodded, pulling a screwdriver from the back of his belt. It was sharp, and obscenely long, like the ones for mechanical work. Hand on Warren's back, they inhaled together, and exhaled together, Daryl mouthing a countdown - "Three, two, _one_ ," before springing up, out of the bushes, and into action.

If an outside perspective had managed to look in on the pair, they would have noticed something extraordinary about how they fought together. It was not that they fought the same, or that they fought even similarly, but it was that they fought in a way that _fit_. Of course, there were blunders, and most of them had very little to do with their own styles and more to do with Warren being out of form, but that did not take away from the moment. They performed like dancers who had learned their parts separately and were displaying the full thing together for the first time - it was sloppy, but they made it work because it had the potential to work. When Warren would bend to catch his breath, Daryl would slip over him to attack a Walker and pin it, and Warren would, in turn, keep another off of Daryl's back. When Daryl went hard and missed, Warren would be behind to take the kill. The pair worked in sync, in their own way - while Warren was a fox, agile and small and fierce, Daryl was a hound, bred for the hunt, fast and brutal and merciless.

There were far more Walkers than Daryl counted - more had stumbled in, because the noise of dropping bodies was more than enough - and it seemed to take all the strength out of Warren to keep fighting, but they managed to make their way through them. They were lucky the Walkers came in waves, and not in one large herd, because the total count - twenty five, Daryl counted when they were done and spent and through - at once would have done them in.

Warren was bent over, coughing loudly once they were through and the threat of danger had ceased. He couldn't catch his breath for the briefest of moments, before he managed to swallow and regain the ability. Daryl hovered, holding out a hand to help Warren to his feet once he was finished.

"You okay t'keep going?" He asked, looking Warren over as the boy cleared his throat and regained the ability to speak without dying.

"Yeah, yeah. Just. Yeah." He nodded, obviously in pain, but Daryl wasn't going to push them both to head home when they'd already gotten all the way out here.

"Just don't make me have t'carry you _and_ the deer." Daryl chuckled, trying to lighten the moment, and Warren was obviously grateful. Being fussed over was something he wasn't really in the mood for, and Daryl could tell. Daryl could tell a lot about Warren, he realized, as they re-found the tracks and began forward again, this time a little less wary and just as slow. He could tell a lot about Warren because Warren was a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy - expressive, especially in terms of facial and body language. The kind of expressive that screamed that he'd been trying to say things for years and had been ignored, so he'd let his sense of self get bigger and bigger until it bled out into the universe around him for all to see. Merle was like that, Daryl thought, the tracks bringing them up towards a river running high with the past day's rain. Merle never held back, let his own beliefs bleed into the universe, until one day the universe bled him dry in return.

Daryl paused, tracks in the mud fresh. He looked up, seeing the twitch of the ears above the river grasses that had grown tall and lush. The antlers were the most visible, six or seven points as far as Daryl could read, which meant a buck that was large and lean. He could hear it huff gently on the other side of the bank. He was about to motion to Warren the idea that maybe they could lure it over, but before he could, Warren was already hopping across the stones in the river. He was almost fairy like, Daryl thought, shaking his head and readying his bow. Hopping across stones so lightly.

Warren's arrow whizzed through the air first, striking the large beast in the chest. It wasn't enough to outright kill it immediately, and it brayed loudly and leapt over the river bank, struggling up the other side. Daryl didn't let it get much farther before he ended the hunt, letting the deer's large body drop against the side of the river. Warren hopped back, out of breath and laughing. "That went far better than what I had planned." He said.

"What did you have planned?" Daryl asked, grabbing one of the strong, supple grasses from the bank and testing it, before strapping the deer's front feet together.

"Chasing it." Warren chuckled. "Further out. But hey, this is much better." He smiled, leaning down to stroke the deer's face and press it's eyes closed, before pulling his arrow and Daryl's arrow from the thing's side. "Thanks for helping me cart it back."

"Shoulda told me 'fore I came out here." Daryl grumbled good naturedly, slinging the deer's legs over his shoulders and testing the position. It didn't hurt him, but the beast was heavy and going would be slow. "I dressed all nice 'n everything."

"Aww, trying to woo me? But we just met~!" Warren cooed, jokingly. Of course he was joking, Daryl figured. Not that he was actually trying to woo anyone. Or anything like that. "But I did make you a promise, and you _did_ dress nicely." Warren smiled, like the outfit had actually done some good, and god _dammit_ Daryl didn't want to admit Carol was right, but praised her all the same. "You want to know about Alexandria."

"Yeah." Daryl grunted, starting off into the woods. "Don't wait up on me t'respond or nothin' though." He chuckled, shifting the buck's weight. At least home was more of a straight shot than their arrival path, so it wouldn't be that far to cart the fucking thing.

Warren hadn't been listening, bow and arrow loose, pointed at the ground as he thought a moment. "You heard from Aaron a lot, I bet. He knew a lot. He found me out here, before I'd started the wall, before I'd even gotten used to being on my own. To him I was a frightened child, I think, but he took me in anyway." Warren picked his head up, remembering suddenly he was the only one armed and able to keep watch. He softened his voice as he spoke again, the woods thick and quiet around them.

"Deanna was nice. She was patient with me, with the fact that I was scared. But she was also unforgiving. I had to tell her, and the camera, everything, and I mean _everything_. She was asking about my past, which wasn't too bad, and then about my family, and then she started asking about _medical history_ bullshit. I asked if we could stop. I didn't want to talk about my medical history with strangers, but she had she had to know, because they needed to know ahead of time if I was going to be a medical hassle, basically. I mean, she didn't say _hassle_ , she was a congresswoman, she knows better than to speak like that, but that was what was implied. So I was basically forced to come out to her without my consent, and since that's the _second_ time that's happened in my life it definitely was way less fun than it could have been." Warren sighed.

"Come out?" Daryl squinted, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips like he wasn't sure the words Warren were using meant what he thought they meant. "Y'mean like, you're gay?" He asked like he knew he was missing something, like he knew there was a gap in his information and he couldn't be right.

"Well, you're not wrong, but not really." Warren chuckled. He paused a moment, checking behind them, hearing the soft rustle of something and nearly getting scared by a small squirrel that bolted between his legs. He suppressed his shriek, and when all was silent, he continued. "I mean, I am gay, but that's not what I meant by coming out. I meant I'm trans." He paused. No look of understanding washed over Daryl's face. "Like, transgender. Born in the wrong body?" _There_ it was, finally, that _oh_ moment Warren had been waiting for. Daryl wasn't stupid - he knew what trans people were, of course, he'd just never heard the right words for him. When his education system on those types of things was mostly Merle, all he'd heard were things like _tranny_ , which he figured was a slur since it was Merle talking, after all.

"So you wanna be a girl? Are a girl?" Daryl tried, confused.

"No, I was born a girl." Warren chuckled. At least Daryl's fumble with the whole thing went over well - clearly, Warren enjoyed the idea that Daryl thought him so much a man that, when told Warren was trans, assumed it went _the other way_ \- and he chuckled at himself good naturedly. Warren sighed, a second wind from all that laughter picking up his voice, and stifling the weakness that was starting to spread in him. "But yeah. Born a girl, definitely am a guy, definitely didn't want the free set of tits I was gifted when I was twelve but whatever, they were free, and I couldn't return them anyway, yadda yadda." Warren giggled. "So I had to tell Deanna's lovely camera about that whole thing - where I was in my transition, how long I'd been where I was, all of it. I mean, I get having to explain I was on testosterone, but like, not _why_."

"So you gotta take hormones 'n shit." Daryl nodded, taking it all in. He realized saying he'd never met someone who was transgender was a lie, because the statistical likely-hood of him never meeting someone from a rather large minority group was fairly low, but he'd never met someone who was _out_ and trans, and especially not someone who seemed willing to explain.

"Yeah. I'd been on a low dose for a while, since my parents didn't know until it was almost the end anyway, so that was kinda helpful. But I told the cameras, and I told Deanna not to let anyone see the tapes, because I wanted to kind of tell people individually, after I'd gotten to know them. I didn't really want to come out to a bunch of people because the odds that someone was transphobic were kind of extreme and I wanted to be able to judge who they were first." Warren shrugged, pausing to let Daryl straighten his back. It popped, and he stretched, before re-shouldering the buck and moving forward. "Well, apparently the fact that Deanna wanted the tapes hidden meant everyone and their brother wanted to see it, and before I knew it everyone in the town knew. And a couple of folks didn't like it. I heard shouting at night, people would throw things at my door, glass and cans and trash." Warren paused, the wall within sight now, the day hot above them. "And then one night I woke up to breaking windows, and I was carried outside and... well, beaten." Warren shrugged, like he didn't want a pity party, he didn't want Daryl's tears, because that's just what happened. "I don't remember a lot. I just remember waking up outside with the doors closed and feeling like a truck had run me over."

Daryl dropped the buck in the leaves, stepping forward like he was going in for a hug and stopping himself. "Don't sound like the people I met." He said, a little angry at himself for trusting those fuckers. "Who was it?"

"I don't remember. I don't _want_ to remember." Warren sighed, tired now, much more tired than he had been all day, eyes weak. "I just... I was so _scared_ when I saw you, because I thought they'd sent you to see if I was still alive, like they might come hurt me again just for existing outside their walls." He shook his head, pressing his hand to his forehead. "I just want to leave that behind me."

Daryl shifted, nodding, understanding. He knew what it was like, wanting to leave bloody pasts behind. And as he nodded, he was already thinking how he was going to get his people out here, because he'd made a promise, and while it was now no longer an option bringing Warren back - the chances of him getting hurt were insane, honestly - he wasn't going to just start breaking promises. Not yet.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps. Lots of footsteps. Both men paled, the moans loud around them, the air thick with the sound and the hot stench of death.

They'd been ambushed.


	7. Catch-22

Ambush was probably not the correct word to use, but _we stopped paying any attention and got fucked_ was much worse. Either way, the Walkers were close - and there were so many, far more than Daryl could count at a glance, a proper hoard advancing through the trees, gurgling and hissing and reaching out for them with cold, dead hands - and they had no time to run. Warren immediately loaded up his bow, firing a shot, felling a Walker that was closing at surprising speed, buying them a second. They couldn't kill them all, but every dead Walker meant they had a few more seconds before they were overwhelmed. Daryl wasn't thinking anymore, simply reacting, adrenaline pumping through his veins making him fast and strong and fearless. He grabbed the buck first, heaving it bodily over the line - it may have been the smell of it that attracted him, he couldn't be sure anymore, but either way leaving it would have been a mistake, because they would never go away - and the wet squelching pop of its stomach bursting as it landed was loud, and the smell of fresh, bleeding organs was enough to attract more, even if the deer wasn't the original cause.

"We need to go!" Daryl snapped, pulling on Warren's jacket even as Warren fired off another arrow, hitting the artery in the neck, blood spraying onto them like a hot, red rain, the Walker unfazed by the blow. "Now!" Daryl pulled, hard, stepping through the barbed wire, shirt and pants catching slightly, only letting go when Warren had his back to the wire. Warren turned to go through himself, one leg between the wires, and fell, dead hands clutching at his pants.

Daryl hadn't heard a scream like that in a long time; a scream full of fear and surprise and something much deeper than the terror of being eaten, something much more frightening than being devoured. Warren kicked out with his foot, dislodging the hands slightly but more hands gripping him, blood now everywhere, teeth reaching for him, mouth so close he could feel the hot breath on his skin through the jeans, and Daryl didn't think when loaded his crossbow, the string beneath his fingers slippery even though it wasn't wet, hard to pull back, his hands shaking, needing to prime the fucking thing _faster_ because the worst was here, it could happen any second and he couldn't _fuck this up_ , and he barely thought when he fired, the bolt hitting the head in a way that it dropped to Warren's leg. But the hands released, and Daryl fell back through the gap, tearing his pants and his shirttails and scratching up his arms, pulling Warren with him, the boy's cold body landing on his own.

The dead didn't follow, couldn't follow, as the wall was well built and they couldn't figure out how to get through where Daryl and Warren did. When they tried to follow, they broke their own heads on the barbs, or caught themselves on the wires and couldn't move. It didn't matter, though - Warren was half out of it, and Daryl had to support him when he stood. Coming down from the adrenaline high had taken its toll, and Warren looked worse than ever. Daryl patted his face, bent to his level, tried to catch his eyes, _anything_ to get a response, and eventually Warren waved him off with a weak gesture. "I'm okay, I'm okay." He murmured.

He didn't need to ask, and he didn't want to, because Warren didn't have a choice. They had to get back to safety before they could do anything, because recovering out in the open was a horrible idea. Daryl still had to support the boy, helping him through the trees, as his ankle was twisted and awkward under him. However, when they got to the doors, Warren bolted, nearly falling down the stairs on his bad ankle as he left Daryl behind at the doors. Daryl hovered a moment, taking a step or two into the bunker and hearing Warren wretch down the stairs, and knowing he didn't need to intrude. When Warren was done, however, the hunter headed down the stairs, seeing Warren coming out of the bathroom at a slow, miserable hobble.

He looked so much worse than he had that morning, his eyes dark, his lips pink and his face pale. He was covered in blood, splattered on his face, across his chest, his ankle so red it was hard to see the color of his pants. His head was dripping sweat, and he was breathing heavily. He leaned heavily on the wall, and Daryl decided he was done hovering with a hearty internal _fuck this_ and approached, pressing his hands to Warren's face. His cheeks were cold, and his forehead was burning. A fever, and a bad one, which meant bad things. Fevers were the body's way of saying something was going very wrong, and a fever this bad meant Warren's body was having issues. Daryl didn't have to think to realize the main fever-inducing trauma out here was getting bitten, and considering what just happened, well. _Fuck_. Daryl bent down to look Warren in the face, immediately concerned.

"Did you get bit?!" He was urgent, rushed, _panicked_. This was the worst thing that could happen, worst thing in the world. Warren shook his head, but it was hard to tell if it was a yes, a no, or it was just lolling on his neck. "Did you get bit?!" Daryl asked again, loud, like maybe Warren's head was stuffed with cotton and he couldn't hear the question. No response came for a moment, and Daryl shook Warren's shoulders, so worried now that this one person he came to trust, the one person he'd worked so hard to get to trust him, was dying because of a mistake they made, a mistake _he_ made. Eventually Warren answered, voice quiet and hoarse.

"No, no, I didn't, I'm fine, Daryl, _please_. I wasn't bit, I wasn't bit." He was begging, almost crying, like he didn't understand what was going on with him, but Daryl wasn't listening. His mind was racing, hands shaking. What did he need to do? He needed to get a doctor, he needed to get someone from his group, because he didn't trust Pete not to hurt the boy more, he needed to get _help_.

"I just want to lie down a bit, I've felt this bad since this morning, lemme just sleep it off." Warren put his hands on Daryl's arms, steadying himself as well as attempting to comfort the other, trying a smile and failing it. He was obviously miserable, and swaying dangerously like he could just topple any second. Daryl didn't have a whole lot of time.

"You go lie down." Daryl nodded, leading Warren down the hall, supporting him softly. "I'm gonna get you help."

"I don't need help." Warren murmured, too unaware to really argue but protesting weakly none the less. Daryl helped him lay down, covered him up - he'd heard something about smothering a fever, starving a cold, and figured keeping Warren warm was a good idea, at least - and as soon as Warren was stable without him, he ran. It didn't matter his clean clothes were covered in thick, dark blood, or that he was winded, or that he hadn't eaten all day. None of it mattered, because Warren had a fever. As far as Daryl knew, Warren could have been bitten and hadn't realized it because of the adrenaline, and could be turning as they spoke. Or he could be dying from something else, and that was just as bad.

Daryl had known loss, of course, and this wasn't new. But he hadn't known loss like this. He hadn't _worked_ towards someone before, worked towards friendship in this way before and then had it so carelessly ripped from him, so callously taken away before, and it _scared_ him. He didn't know what Warren meant to him, he had no idea, because he hadn't thought it over, but he knew he didn't want the boy dead, not when it was on him. Not like this.

Alexandria's gate opened easily at his touch, and he slammed it behind him. Luckily for him, Rick was out patrolling and saw him immediately, trotting over quickly, immediately ready for just about anything, because Daryl was a mess. He was covered in blood, dripping the thick, dark goop onto the pavement, and he was sweating, and he looked _scared_. Rick started to speak as he rushed over, like he thought Daryl may be hurt, but Daryl spoke first.

"Warren's ain't doin' too good." Daryl didn't need to elaborate on the situation - Rick could read as much from the other's face. He looked like a frightened dog, eyes wide, breathing heavily, shoulders tucked like he may need to run again. He bounced on his feet, even as Rick ducked back into the compound, shouting, loud, calling for medical help, and it was Maggie who eventually came running. She didn't need any other explanation - the group all knew Daryl was visiting some kid in the woods, and they all had the same motherly titter when they talked about it, about how Daryl might have a boyfriend by week's end with how this was going - and was faster than Rick, fast because she knew what was at stake. She had been with her father, and she wasn't a doctor but she was good with what she needed, and she knew better than to make anyone wait. Daryl didn't hesitate, and the two of them nearly left Rick behind in their haste to get to the compound.

When they arrived, the doors were ajar, and Daryl skidded to a stop. His heart was racing in his chest as he toed the door open, knife at the ready. Today couldn't get any worse, honestly - he hurt a friend, because he was firmly in the belief that he could have helped Warren much sooner, he went for help and when he comes back, something' already broken in and eaten his friend, what could be _worse_ \- but he pressed forward. He wasn't thinking, only charging forward, and proceeded to topple bodily down the stairs because the intruder was a _cat_ and it's common knowledge cats really like murdering people on stairs. The cat hopped up and out, leaving out the door he got in, and Daryl swore loudly after it, hopping to his feet quickly and holding the shoulder he was sure would be bruised by day's end.

Maggie rushed past, because the layout of the bunker was such that there was literally one room Warren could be in, and Daryl followed right behind. Warren was curled up on the bed, miserable, clutching at his chest, blood staining the sheets where his clothes were in contact with them. "I think he might've got bit." Daryl murmured, softly, trying not to scare Warren even though the boy probably couldn't have processed language right then, as he was fading in and out of consciousness. "Check his ankle. He's got a fever."

Maggie nodded, stripping the blanket up from the side to get to Warren's feet, and it was obvious which ankle to check. Luckily, the skin was clean beneath it, scratched slightly but otherwise unharmed, and Daryl heaved out a sigh at the sight. "His ankles look fine." Maggie pulled the sheets back down, pressing a hand to Warren's forehead. "But you're right, he's got a fever, and it's bad. He's probably got an infection with this kinda fever, cause colds aren't usually like this. We gotta take him back to Alexandria." Maggie insisted. She looked back when she heard Rick enter the room, his presence wary.

This was the first time he'd seen Daryl's new friend in person, and while Maggie had clicked into a professional mode, Rick had not, and this kid made him nervous. He stepped up to the head of the bed, squatting beside it and putting a gentle hand on Warren's shoulder, shaking him. Warren sort of came to, opening his eyes and seeing Rick for the first time. He jumped, trying to pull back, and Rick hushed him. "It's okay." Rick murmured. "My name's Rick Grimes. I'm Daryl's friend." At his name, Daryl stepped up behind Rick, and the hunter's presence calmed Warren somewhat. "I need to ask you a few questions, and then we can get you the help you need. They won't be too hard."

"Okay." Warren's voice was soft, heavy with sickness. Daryl hovered behind Rick like a worried puppy, because he knew what Rick was going to ask and he wasn't sure if Warren would pass. It was hard to tell what a passing answer was, considering what they had done recently. When Rick started the questions, it was to keep obvious killers out, but now that their group were more or less a bunch of obvious killers, he wasn't sure.

"One, how many walkers have you killed?" Rick was quiet, soft when he asked, and gently shook Warren when he looked like he was drifting away.

"I don't know. A lot." Warren groaned a little. "I thought you said these wouldn't be hard." The admission made Rick chuckle, which was a good sign. Daryl paced into the hall and back again, a little antsy with how long this was taking but glad at least that Warren wasn't bitten. If he was bitten these questions would have had to wait until later if Daryl had to beat Rick upside the head to make it happen.

"Two, how many people have you killed?" Rick shifted forward slightly, closer to the bed.

"One." Warren shook his head, the memory obviously not a pleasant one. "Just one."

"Three, why?"

"He tried to hurt me." Warren replied, softly. "He saw my house when it started, he saw my house on fire, and he followed me here, and he tried to take this place and he wanted to-to hurt me so I-I killed him." Warren coughed, looking up at Rick and then at Daryl, like he wondered if he should have lied and said none at all. But Rick nodded, backing off, letting Daryl take his place at the head of the bed, Daryl's large hand comforting against Warren's shoulder.

"Let's get him back to Alexandria." Rick said, accepting the answers. Daryl was relieved, but hearing the name, Warren flipped, sudden energy in his limbs pushing him back on the bed and away.

"No, no, no, no, no you can't take me back there you can't please!" Warren was babbling wildly, desperately trying to push himself away, near to screaming. Rick pulled Daryl close, because of course the screaming reaction to Alexandria raised a lot of questions and of course he thought Daryl had answers.

"Some of th'residents didn't like 'um." Daryl murmured. "'Pparently they beat 'm up and left 'm outside t'die." He was quiet, because he didn't want Warren to have to relive any of those memories when he was this ill. This was a bad situation, and both Rick and Daryl knew it was, but before they could make a call Maggie offered a possible solution.

"Look, he might just have the shittiest cold in the world and might just need bed rest." She said, sitting down on the bed so she could slip closer to Warren. "If you'll let me look you over, I can see if there is anything infected, cause you might be able to just stay here." She was kind, and Warren eventually nodded, because anything was better than going back. "You boys mind stepping outside? Privacy might be nice for him." Maggie asked, and Rick nodded, pulling Daryl along as they stepped into the hall.

"What happens if he needs to go back?" Rick asked, gruffly, but quiet. Daryl looked towards the bedroom, face steeled. "You know who hurt him?"

"Nah, he doesn't remember." Daryl exhaled, staring at his feet for a moment. "If he's gotta go back, then he's gotta go back, 'n we'll just keep him safe." He nodded, like this was a decent solution. "If anyone hurts him I'm gonna personally shove my boot so far up their ass it comes out their eyes." He was honestly serious, and threatening, and the show of bravado was enough for Rick to know he wouldn't need to put everyone on watching Warren day in and day out.

" _Shit_." Maggie swore from the bedroom, and Daryl all but threw himself through the doorway. Warren had his shirt up, which Maggie was holding, and the bandages under his shirt were obviously disgusting. They were wet, and sticky, and it was easy to see underneath the skin was swollen and red. "Well, there's your answer." She pulled his shirt down, and he leaned on her gently, too weak to keep himself upright. "We gotta take you back."

Daryl trotted up, sitting next to Warren and taking his weight, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Look, I know you don't wanna go back there 'n I can't blame you, but we ain't got no choice." He said, softly. "But that don't mean they'll hurt you again, got that? Anyone even think 'bout hurtin' you gonna get their dick shoved so far up their own ass they'll spit cum." Daryl was venomous, and serious, but the promise made Warren chuckle. He didn't respond, though he tried, as he was in and out more quickly now, and after a second he sort of just passed out on Daryl's shoulder. If he wasn't breathing, Daryl would have been worried. Quickly, he wrapped his arm around Warren's legs, and picked him up off the bed, cradling Warren's head to his chest so he could navigate the small hallway.

"Right. Maggie, you run ahead and find Pete. I'll stay with Daryl." Rick said, letting Maggie through as she left, her fast, lithe sprint sounding like rain on the stairs as she left. Daryl slipped through the hallway, pausing at the entrance where the boy had dropped his bow.

"Grab his shit." Daryl toed the bow gently, and Rick picked it and the quiver up, slinging it over his back. "Don't want it t'get stolen." He chuckled, shifting the boy in his arms as he climbed the stairs, Rick closing the door behind him.

Well, Daryl told himself, he did it. Warren was going back to Alexandria.

But at what price?


	8. Blood Brothers

He didn't think he'd ever forget how cold Warren felt in his arms. The boy was cold, and light, and shaking in his arms as they walked, Daryl only going as fast as he figured would be comfortable for the boy in his arms. He pulled the boy close, feeling the chill through his jacket, the sickly smell of stale iodine that was infection strong now, stronger that he was close.

Alexandria was gathered at the gates when they arrived. They tittered, hushed, talking to each other, quiet like church mice. Rick expected them to scatter, to let them through, but they didn't, blocking the path, closing them in tightly. Daryl could see the hatred in a few of the faces around them, quiet, seething hatred. Glen pushed through the crowd the other way, offering to take the heavy body and let Daryl's arms rest, holding Warren like he was delicate, breakable. Aaron followed, trying to calm the residents, creating a buffer between them.

"Let us through." Rick was calm, but urgent, trying to press past the people, but they herded tighter.

"Why did you bring _it_ back?" One asked, incredulous, almost furious.

"We threw it out for a reason!" Another provided, angry.

"We don't _want_ it, or anything having to do with it!" A third called. If they hadn't been so quick in succession, they wouldn't have gotten to three, because as they spoke Daryl was trying to pick out faces in the crowd. He managed to center on the third speaker, an older woman, and if it hadn't been for Aaron bodily holding him back, she would be dead. Daryl was furious, fighting against the slightly shorter man wildly.

"Say that again!" He was loud, obstinately so, and it was honestly taking all of Aaron's strength just to keep Daryl from swinging on old people, because they didn't have the medical supplies to fix people like that. "Say that again so I can shove my fist in your god damn mouth!" He struggled, nearly cold clocked Aaron in the back of the head with an elbow, and then stilled. Maggie had, as they had asked, fetched Pete, who was parting the crowd like a red-headed Messiah, bottle in hand.

"You called me out here to fix _that_ thing? I thought we'd gotten rid of the tranny scum a long fuckin' time ago!" Pete giggled, drunk, reeking of alcohol and hatred. "I'm not fixing _shit_. You're better off just throwing it out, like the rest of the garbage." He waved the bottle, a half empty tanker of Tequila, of all things, at Rick like this was an oversight on his part. "I thought you were 'supposed to keep out the rabble, not drag it in."

"Warren's _dying!_ " Daryl snapped, the sudden burst almost knocking Aaron over, who struggled to keep Daryl from slamming into the residents who formed around Pete like they were going to be protected by him. "Who're you to decide who lives or dies?!"

"He's one of us now." Rick's voice was low, dangerous, and Daryl stilled again, tense behind Aaron's grasp, jittery like a dog told to wait. Rick stepped up, and the people scattered away from him, leaving Pete in the open, alone. "As far as I am aware, he even passed Deanna's test the first time around, which is all any of these other people need. I'd suggest," Rick pressed up towards Pete, hot tequila breath in his face, nose to nose, "you turn around and get your things ready, like a real surgeon, before things get bad." Rick's warning took a moment to pass behind Pete's eyes, and when it did, he flipped.

"Like a _real surgeon?!_ " Pete laughed, loud and bawdy, shaking his head. "What are you gonna do if I don't, huh? Put me in _jail?_ You don't have any real power here! It's just a facade! I _want_ to see you try and make me help that _faggot_."

Rick stepped back as he spoke, and Daryl pounced on cue. Even if Aaron had been ready for it, he probably would have let it happen anyway, but as it was Daryl just slipped from his barrier so fast he couldn't react to it. Daryl didn't have to think too much, feet already poised to jump, scabbed knuckles itching to hurt _someone_ for talking bad about Warren like that. Pete's face was red, and he wasn't prepared for the pounce, and Daryl knocked him over quickly. They struggled, Pete going for his usual strangle technique, Daryl pounding his fists into Pete's face. Eventually Pete got the brilliant idea to swing with his bottle hand, and the glass shattered over Daryl's head, but it didn't deter the hunter. It only made him hit harder, and the blood was already flowing anyway.

"Stop!" Deanna was running when she arrived a few moments later. It had felt like they'd been fighting forever, but they'd only been tussling for a moment. "What's going on?!"

"Pete was refusing to treat a dying boy who, as far as I was told, had already been a resident here." Rick said, softly, crossing his arms. He wasn't wrong, and he knew it - he had every right to try and save a life, and there was no harm in what he was doing. Deanna crossed her arms, already aware of the situation, and already aware that any decisions she needed to make had already been made for her, really. She didn't need to be told what was going on - the chattering Rick's group had done hadn't been kept a secret, which is how most of the place knew Warren was coming back before he even got there. Daryl hopped to his feet, a little wobbly - the blow to the head hadn't been for nothing, apparently - and pulled Pete up with him. The surgeon was groggy and bleeding profusely from where Daryl had nearly broken his nose, and Daryl looked just as bad.

"Pete." Deanna was stern, and knowing, and the people moved around her gently, like she was a disturbance in a pond. "Go to the infirmary and help the boy." She ordered. Pete looked ready to protest, but she stopped him with a hand. "If you don't, I'll have to figure out what the punishment will be for attempted murder, and I'll have you know it won't be in your favor." She looked serious, and he grumbled. There was no protesting at this point, not when the only person he considered superior to himself was telling him he would be punished readily for his transactions if he didn't.

"He doesn't deserve to live anyway!" Pete called as a last fuck you to the system he thought was putting him down, stumbling to the infirmary. Glen started to follow after with Warren in his arms, but Daryl stopped him, gently taking Warren's light body from him. He didn't trust Glen to protect Warren if Pete decided to try and kill him anyway, since Glen wasn't the _punch someone's face until they give in_ kind of retaliator. Glen followed anyway, Maggie behind him.

"I'm also going to take away his alcohol for a while." Deanna murmured to Rick, as the parties left. She thought she would be alone, but the residents lingered. "Okay, you can all go home." She was loud, _tired_ now, and they scattered, embarrassed to be caught. Rick pressed a hand to her arm once they all left, leading her to the infirmary after the others. She went with, quiet for a moment, watching the curtains on the building flutter. "You're going to want answers, aren't you?" She asked, like she didn't want to give them.

"Eventually." Rick nodded, heading up the stairs. "Daryl knows the most, and he hasn't told me a lot, but I feel like he may have a lingering question." Rick paused at the door, the inside quiet. Inside the door, Glen was against the wall, Daryl pacing, bloody faced, in the hallway.

"They got Warren some anti-biotics, and he's resting on a table now." Glen said, almost immediately. He looked wide eyed, and sad, like what he'd seen had left an impression on his psyche. He was never going to forget the sight of Daryl carting Warren though the doors, the limpness of the boy's limbs, and how, for a moment, it was all too much like Beth. "Maggie is helping Pete patch his face in the same room, and then she'll patch Daryl's. We need to set up a bed somewhere for the kid to rest while he heals, but he should be fine with rest." Glen nodded, smiling a little.

The door opened, and Daryl jumped at it like he wanted in, but Maggie stepped out first, bodily keeping Daryl from Pete _or_ the door. Pete slipped out, and she closed it, much to Daryl's ire. "Pete, go home." Deanna said, and Pete did as he was asked, face bandaged like a mummy. Daryl tried to go past Maggie, but she stopped him again and again.

"Lemme see 'm!" Daryl snapped, but his anger only made Maggie more resolved to not let him through.

"No. What's gonna happen is you're gonna go into the other room so I can look at your head." Maggie said, softly. "Then you and Deanna have some questions to answer, because if these people are that hostile towards him, we need to know exactly why. And _then_ , when we're done, you can see him, and by then we should have a bed ready for him in the house." She was stern, and firm, and Daryl eventually conceded attempting to get past her anyway. "I don't want to have to talk about what happened to him around him, especially if he wakes up." Maggie added, and at this, Daryl had to agree.

"Alright. But this better be fast."

~o~o~

"I remember having him as a resident." Deanna was speaking now. Daryl had told them everything he knew that he thought relevant - that Warren was trans, that this was a big secret, and that people didn't like that - and was currently getting his head sewn up. The bottle had nearly cracked his skull open, and he'd been bleeding profusely down the back of his head. Whatever hope this shirt had at being clean, it had gone ages ago. "He was a sweet kid, and a hard worker. He had no intention of hurting anyone, and he had asked me to keep his issue a secret, and I tried. But a few of the residents found the tapes anyway." Deanna sighed, pressing her hands to her face. "They _hated_ him as soon as they knew. They'd throw bottles at his windows, cover his porch in glass - they acted like _children_." She was furious with her own residents, furious with how this went. She looked at the floor. "Then, one night, a few of them broke in and took it farther than any of us had ever expected. I was only aware after the fact, but they broke one of his windows, snuck inside, and took him outside the walls while he was sleeping. They didn't tell me what they did, but Aaron had followed them and knew - they'd beaten him within an inch of his life and left him there. Aaron cut him down from where they'd strung him up and made sure he'd be alright on his own just after, and he hasn't been back since." She sighed.

"But do you know _who_?" Rick asked, all protective masculinity in his uniform. "We need to know, because they shouldn't be allowed around Warren without supervision, at the very least."

"I know Aiden admitted to it after." Deanna looked like it hurt to accuse him. "Him and Pete weren't quiet about what they did once he was gone. They tried to celebrate. I put them both under house arrest for a few days." She pressed her hands to her face. "It was better without him. They'd forgotten. They'd _forgotten_."

The room was still for a long moment, and when Rick looked like he was about to speak, the room tensed - would he kill them? Would he let them be? "I'm going to have a talk with them both." Rick said, softly, and the tension eased. "They need to know Warren isn't leaving, and if they act out again, I won't hesitate to take this in my own hands." Rick looked to Deanna. "If they hurt Warren again, or even threaten him, their punishment is mine to give, because Warren is _my people_ now. You got your chance to deal with them."

"Understood." Deanna nodded, worried. It was hard to believe Pete wouldn't act out again, or Aiden. But she had to keep them in line, because Rick's words carried an underlying threat - he wasn't as lenient or gentle when he doled out punishment. Daryl huffed, wincing a little as Maggie finished up the stitches, freeing him from his chair. He stood, pausing for a moment, waiting for someone to stop him.

"Unless you got more questions," He said, hovering, blood still dripping to the floor. No response came, so he moved. He didn't need to tell them where he was going. They already knew.


	9. War and Peace

Warren's bed was complete by the time they had finished talking. Glenn, having no need to be part of the conversation, had gotten assistance in dragging a bed and frame from upstairs in one of the houses to the living room. He and Michonne had fit the bed with sheets they had found in a closet upstairs, and had laid Warren in it, covering him up. He looked peaceful, comfortable now, and he didn't wake even when he was moved. Daryl hadn't waited for anyone to leave before he dragged up a chair and sat down in it, content to keep watch from Warren's beside. Rick had followed him from the infirmary, and spoke in hushed tones to Glenn for a moment, which Daryl didn't pay attention to. It didn't matter what they were saying. Rick put a hand on Glenn's shoulder, sending him out into the world, before approaching Daryl. The hunter hadn't showered, had stitches in his head, was covered in blood, and didn't care. He was too busy staring at Warren's peaceful face, like he'd never seen the boy so calm or painless.

"Daryl." Rick put his hand on Daryl's shoulder, and the hunter grunted gently in response, brought out of his self imposed trance by the comforting hand. "We're gonna tell our group what happened. Including Warren's condition." Rick was soft, respectful at the boy's bedside, but considering what he just said, Daryl couldn't tell if he was actually being truly respectful.

"I dunno if he'd like that." Daryl murmured, shrugging. "Tellin' everybody without him without askin' him." He cross his arms, defensive, protective of Warren even when the boy was passed out on the bed in front of him. Michonne, in the background, turned away from the scene with a smile - how it wasn't obvious to Daryl what he felt for Warren, she didn't get, because he was barely this protective of anyone else.

"We don't have a choice." Rick bent down, squatting beside the chair, putting his other hand on the bed. He was serious, deadly so, and Daryl couldn't fight that sentiment. "They're going to find out from someone in this place, and I'd rather it be from one of us than from another resident. It'll be easier to keep Warren safe if everyone already knows - we can put a stop to unkind behavior before Warren is awake to have it affect him."

"Okay." Daryl agreed, standing, and Rick mimicked him. The reasons were sound, and it wasn't just telling for telling sake, and Warren would understand. "But I wanna tell 'um." He was soft, considerate. It was the least he could do - he wanted to make sure he was there so that Warren never got misrepresented by the others, and only had the truth told.

"Okay." Rick almost expected that, nodding softly. "Glenn went to go get the others that already know here, so we can talk. Now that everyone involved has had a chance to step back from the situation, I want to make sure they all understand and don't have any lingering questions or animosity." Rick was dealing with the whole thing very well, and Daryl knew that him overseeing the moments would be the best they could do. They couldn't _not_ tell their people - this wasn't a secret that they could keep, not when the other residents would jump at the chance to tell someone on the inside who might react badly; tell someone they could get on their side.

It didn't take long for Glenn to return, and the group stepped onto the porch, closing the door to keep the house quiet. There were only five - Rick, Daryl, Glenn, Maggie and Michonne - but five was good enough to start. "Now, I know you all already know Warren's condition." Rick said, leaning against a railing.

"We need to find somethin' else t'call it." Daryl stepped in, arms crossed. "Condition makes it sound like he's got cancer."

"Okay." Rick conceded, because Daryl was right. Neither of them knew much about the etiquette surrounding transgender awareness - hell, until Warren, neither of them really _had_ transgender awareness - but both could tell that _condition_ made it sound like this was some medical issue Warren was fighting, which it wasn't. As far as Daryl could tell, besides the infection, Warren was pretty content. The only thing was that he had to work to get there. "You all know about Warren." Rick corrected, and this was deemed better, and he continued. "Daryl and I are going to inform the rest of our group before the other residents attempt to, and we'll need you three to start keeping watch. Are you all okay to do that? Do you have any questions, any hesitations?"

"Don't wanna put anybody that might hurt him in there." Daryl added, always the right hand man, even when this was his job. But it worked, this. Rick doing the diplomatic talking and Daryl simply adding what was needed. It was probably for the best, as Daryl wasn't the best at diplomacy.

"I don't really need to know much more." Maggie said, eventually, staring at the door. It was clear her views on the subject were on the fence, but she wasn't hostile when she spoke again. "Daddy wasn't big on this kinda thing, said we shouldn't deny what God gave us, but it ain't my business what Warren is or does or wants. 'Specially not out here, not when the world's like this. If he's happier like he is, then that's all there is for it." She nodded, reaching out for Glenn's hand, and Glenn took it. It was easy to tell - if this were her family, without the apocalypse, she might have been less accepting, but the world was over as they knew it and there was no reason for her to take away what Warren had.

"We're still... He's still a he, right?" Glenn asked, softly, tiptoeing around his sentencing like a misstep would get him in trouble. He seemed less like he didn't accept the idea, and more concerned that his lack of knowledge on the subject would be offensive, and that he would hurt Warren by accident without trying. "I mean, like, it's not any different than it was when you were just telling us about him, right?" He looked to Daryl, who nodded.

"He ain't different." Daryl smiled, leaning back against the railing in a relaxed way, and Glenn smiled back, more relaxed now that he was assured he wouldn't have to try and change anything, and that he was doing okay as he was. This was going a lot better than Daryl had anticipated. He'd expected someone to start griping about it, or even throwing punches, but they'd lucked out so far. There wasn't any animosity between anyone there, and the atmosphere felt nice, and protective. He looked to Michonne, who'd been quiet the entire time, leaning against the wall of the house, closed off. It was like there was a great weight on her heart, and she wasn't sure how to start processing it, how to start breaking it down. Rick stepped over to her, and he didn't have to ask what was up for her to know they were asking.

"I'm okay." Michonne forced a smile, and Rick put a hand on her shoulder. She covered his hand with her own. "I'm just... trying to understand why anyone would care enough about this to hurt someone for it." She was quiet, introspective, the great weight making her almost unable to speak loudly. "Why would someone _hurt_ him, when who he is doesn't even effect them?" She shook her head, and they said nothing. They couldn't have if they tried, because what Michonne was talking about was far out of their reach. Only Glenn had even the opportunity to experience any kind of prejudice in their lives, and the rest of them neither could nor should have tried to rationalize this nonsense. Even though the world had ended, their privilege colored their past lives, and they all knew better than to speak, even if they had no idea what privilege was.

"I thought, maybe now that the world was over, oppression and prejudice like this would just go away, because we're all fighting the same monsters." Michonne finally added. "I thought, maybe because we're in a world where we're all just struggling to get by, people would forget about what they were angry about. Being angry takes so much _time_ and _energy_ , I thought people would be able to afford it, and move on."

"I think... some people don't realize there are real monsters out there." Glenn replied, softly. "Some people, like the people here, still have privilege over others, because they don't have to think about wasting energy on anger. They talk at their parties like the world we know is something that happens to other people, something they don't have to worry about. They've never really seen a Walker, they've never had to take one down with their own hands - how could they even know that the monsters outside the walls are worse than anything they could find in here? They're complacent, and that's their big downfall." Glenn finished, and there was silence. There was nothing more they could say, because what could be said had been said by someone who could actually say it. At least Michonne didn't look so down now, the words Glenn had given her starting to chip away at the weight. The group stayed there, content in each other, for a long moment, letting everyone have a chance to process the ideas.

"I'll take first watch." Michonne smiled, putting a hand on Rick's shoulder, breaking the silence. She looked like she needed the alone time to think, and Rick wasn't about to tell her not to take it. "You guys go do what you need, I'll be here as long as you need me to."

~o~o~

They found Rosita and Carol first. They were outside, having been cleaning and organizing the infirmary after the morning's emergency, chatting together softly. Rick and Daryl approached them as they were dumping dustpans over the edge of the porch, and ringing out rags full of pink water. Between Daryl's head and Pete's face, there had apparently been a lot of blood. The boys were at the stairs when they were spotted, and as soon as she saw Daryl, Carol pursed her lips and gave him this look that was so motherly and so much _you're in trouble mister_ that Daryl nearly did a one-eighty and left. But Rick pushed them forward, chuckling a little to himself at the face Carol was making.

"Sorry I wasn't there this morning." Rosita said, brushing off her hands. "One of the kids and their dog fell just before you got there, and Pete sent me to go check them out since they couldn't be moved. And by _sent me_ I mean he was too intoxicated to move either, and I figured it was better he wasn't around kids."

"It's okay." Rick smiled, putting both women at ease. "Actually, we wanted to talk to you both about Warren, and what happened." He sat on the railing, and even with his easy posture, the air was tense. "There was an issue this morning with how the original residents of Alexandria treated him, and we wanted to make sure we told you why before they did."

"What happened?" Carol was immediately concerned, mostly for Warren's safety, and also partially because of how Rick had campaigned for weapons. Was this reason for them to move for a takeover? Rick shook his head, the movement slight, a signal that this wasn't that big, and that only concerned Carol further. It was silent for a moment, tense, both women wondering what the residents could have done.

"Warren's transgender." Daryl sort of spit it out, like he was firing off a gun with his words, like he expected one of them to freak out and this silence was wearing on him and he just wanted the worst moments to be done. There was a hot moment where no one reacted, and then the tension released. Carol nodded, understanding, still concerned and protective and above all loving, and Rosita, well, her _oh!_ moment was almost a little _excited_. Which was new. She was sort of bubbling over at the news, and Daryl felt he needed to say something else before she exploded. "The residents don't like that so much. Just tryin' t'make sure nobody hurts him more than he's already been hurt."

"Well, you know I'd never do anything to him." Carol was sweet, motherly when she spoke. "With the way you've been on about him, Daryl, it's easy to see he's a nice boy, and it doesn't matter what he is, or was." Carol slipped over to the railing, using the clean, wet rag to attempt to clean Daryl's face. The hunter almost recoiled, but the cool rag felt good, and he probably did need to clean his face. He was covered in blood and sweat. When Carol spoke again, she was quiet. "If Sophia had come to me and said she didn't want to be a girl anymore, I wouldn't have loved her any less, and I don't consider Warren any different." She smiled, sincere in her words, and for a while it was quiet, nice, as Carol wiped off Daryl's face. Rosita was still about to bubble over, but she was quiet when they were, letting the silence linger comfortably.

"Do you know if he's on hormones?" Rosita asked, breaking the comfortable silence after another long moment. "Or if he was? Should I dig through the cabinets? I think I may have seen some testosterone. Or at least testosterone heavy steroids, which might help stabilize his levels in a pinch." She paused, looking at the slightly bewildered faces around her, and quickly realized she was speaking more or less jargon. "Testosterone, you know, that stuff you guys produce in truckloads." She paused, and the rest of the porch didn't look like this helped them understand at all. "You know transpeople usually take hormones, right? It helps the body develop in the way they need it. Transboys take testosterone, which redistributes fat from their hips, thighs and face, and it tones muscle. Transgirls take estrogen, which gives them hips and butts and boobs." She put her hands on her hips, smiling as Daryl seemed to get it, somewhere, and Rick stared on in obvious disbelief. Only Carol seemed to not be so confused, and even smiled as she finished cleaning Daryl's face. "I need to find you a book on this stuff."

"How d'you know so much?" Daryl asked back, more curious than suspicious. It was like suddenly Rosita was a fountain of information that he needed, right when he needed it. He made a mental note to talk to her more later. Rosita shrugged and gave them both a hearty, playful smile.

"Girl's gotta keep a few secrets. They didn't make me medical assistant for shits and giggles." She finished wringing out the second rag, and flipped it over her shoulder, almost a bit flirty. She _liked_ being the queen of things-no-one-else-knows. "I'll just go digging for now, and when he wakes up I'll ask him. Even if he hasn't been on hormones before, I bet even getting a low dose will make him giddy."

Neither man on the porch thought to question it, because if Rosita knew more about it than they did, then she definitely wasn't a threat, and honestly was probably the most qualified to talk to people. But she had work to do, and they weren't going to stop her from finding whatever Warren might have needed. "You two go back to spreading the news." Carol said, ringing out the rag she had used on Daryl's face. "I'll help Rosita find what she needs and we can go watch Warren if you want. Take over for whomever's there."

"Michonne is there right now, but she probably deserves a break." Rick said, smiling. This was going fairly well so far, and his group were showing promising signs - there was a reason they were simply better than most of the Alexandrians, and this was one of them.

~o~o~

The next person they came across was Abraham. He was with some of the other men from the town, having just finished part of a construction job they were working on. He was sweaty, carting a large bag, but in a good mood, the day having gone well. He immediately approached them, sensing something was up, but unsure what it was. Daryl hung back, slightly tense. Of course, they both trusted Abraham - he wasn't a bad person - but he had a temper, and they had to be ready, just in case. Rick shifted, waiting for a long moment as the rest of the work crew filed off, leaving them alone in the streets. "What's up?" Abraham wiped off his hands with a rag from his pocket, then his face, dirty with hard work, picking the bag up from where he dropped it.

"Somethin' happened this morning." Daryl was the first to speak, Rick keeping his eyes on Abraham, careful, wary. This attitude towards him, Daryl's brief, frank statement, and the fact that the hunter looked ready to tackle him put Abraham on edge, like what they were going to say was bad. Before he could jump in, Rick spoke, hand out in a calming gesture.

"Nothin' that bad. We got a new member. His name's Warren." Rick was easy in his movements, but not relaxed. He was easy like a boxer is easy before the first punch, easy in anticipation of anything and everything. "Residents don't like him so much, beat him up 'n kicked him out last time. Wanna make sure no one else wants to take a swing at him." This lessened the tension, but only slightly, Abraham looking unsure. What could be so bad that the residents would physically have a go at him to the point where Rick was worried he'd do the same?

"Warren's transgender." Daryl said it, slow this time, watching Abraham's face with every syllable. As soon as he started the word _trans_ , Abraham went red, heat all the way to the ears, like he may explode. But this wasn't the good kind of explode, and just as Daryl finished, the bag he had shouldered went swinging around, like he was trying to hit someone with it. Rick ducked it deftly, and it went sailing out to the side, and immediately Daryl was on the rebound. Tackling Abraham was harder than most, as the man's center of gravity was low, but Daryl tucked down low, and when they hit, Abraham went down. Of course, he swung out at the retaliation, meaty fists trying to clock Daryl in the face, trying to get him off, free himself. Daryl caught the fists, and pinned them, leaving Abraham squirming.

"Calm down." Rick bent over Abraham's face, kneeling there, watching the man turn himself red. "Calm down and talk to us." He was quiet, and eventually, Abraham slowed. He was still red, breathing hard, but he stopped struggling against the hands barely holding him, and Daryl let go. He didn't move from his perch on Abraham's waist, ready to take another hit, but the big man didn't move. "Why did you try and hit me with that bag?"

"I didn't swing for you!" Abraham was insulted that his motions were considered deliberately harmful. He pressed his own hands to his head, pushing up on his eyes. "God, _fuck!_ "

"Ain't nothin' wrong with being what Warren is." Daryl spoke quietly, but his words were almost a growl, low and predatory. He was ready to start swinging, but his reply was greeted with a biting laugh, the big man under him unfazed.

" _Fuck_ , I ain't mad he's transgender!" Abraham shook his head, and tried to sit up, and Daryl pushed back and let him, sitting next to him on the ground. They sat for a second, before Abraham spoke again. "World's a big dick t'people like him, already know that! Already got that shit on lock, already got my hands dirty keeping that kinda shit at bay, then it happens anyway! Fuck that!"

"What do you mean, you've already gotten your hands dirty?" Rick asked, immediately concerned.

"I mean, he ain't the first transperson I met, 'n he ain't the first transperson I know who got their shit busted by some redneck asswipes." Abraham pressed his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead. "Kinda done with people tryin' to beat on others for shit like that. Don't got the energy to keep fightin' them." He sighed, and they were quiet for a moment.

"Who else do you know?" Rick asked, softly. He was curious, but also concerned, because he really couldn't keep splitting the group like this, with some people knowing, some not, some defending one and others defending another. Abraham didn't answer, looking up, watching Rosita approach. She'd been watching from the porch - Carol having left to take watch - and heard them ask, and only now decided to intervene, extending a hand to help the bigger man to his feet. There was a long, long pause.

"Oh." Rick finally got it, finally got the look Abraham was giving him, finally got that understanding. "Rosita, why didn't you say something?"

"Well, for one, I figured you'd get it on your own with how much I just happened to know." Rosita shrugged, crossing her arms. "And honestly, it's better if it goes un-noticed. If Warren makes them mad enough to beat him, I don't want to know what two transpeople would do to the town." She smiled. "Let's just keep me between us, yeah? Save everyone the trouble of this whole thing again."

"Yeah." Daryl nodded, soft and appreciative now that he knew more. "Didn't wanna do this in the first place, but the rest of the residents probably would if we didn't." He shrugged, and Rosita seemed to understand, which made him feel better. If Rosita understood their reasoning, Warren would, and that made him feel less like he was doing this against Warren's will.

"Don't worry about me, or Abraham." Rosita smiled, and Abraham smiled with her, and he seemed more relaxed and okay now than he was. She was good for him, Daryl thought. And he was good for her, apparently. "Go do your thing. I'll go watch over Warren in a bit."

"Okay." Daryl nodded, happy now that everything had gone well so far. He turned to Rick, who nodded, and they turned to leave, heading towards the houses. They didn't get far, even though the streets were quiet and the people were inside and away from them like they were ghosts haunting their tiny town. Maggie came running, sweater all a flutter around her shoulders, looking worried.

"You need to speak to Gabriel." She said, gesturing down the street. Gabriel was speaking quietly to Deanna just outside her door, and they watched him glance down the street and become agitated when he saw them. "I couldn't stay for the conversation, he said it was private, but I heard him tell Deanna to _cast out the sinners_ and _save her paradise_." Maggie was worried, and Rick tried very hard not to break into a run as they approached. Gabriel, seeing them coming for him specifically, tried to turn and walk away like nothing was wrong.

"Gabriel, can we speak with you?" Rick asked, catching him before he bolted. Gabriel turned, a smile on his face that didn't speak to being friendly, and he chuckled nervously.

"Words from the mouth of the wise are gracious." He replied, awkwardly, and Rick shifted, unsure whether that was a go ahead or a no. After a second, pregnant with tension, Rick decided it was a go ahead, and shifted backwards slightly, giving Gabriel his space.

"We wanted to talk to you about Warren." Rick was soft, calm, and Gabriel chuckled, waving off Rick like he didn't need to speak.

"The residents already told me." Gabriel's smile was uneasy, and Daryl hovered in the background, wary. The preacher seemed like he was trying to avoid the conversation, and he was tittery, nervous. "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy." He shifted backward as he spoke, obvious now that he was quoting scripture to them, and making them uneasy. "You do not need to wear yourselves out informing me. He is a child of god, and every child of god must be saved." He nodded, backing up more. "But I must go. I have people to speak to. They are uneasy with the boy, and I will comfort them."

"You sure?" Rick asked, still wary. "You don't have any questions?"

"I do not ask questions. I know God has a plan for us all." Gabriel nodded, and it seemed to take all his willpower not to run from them as he left, heading back down the road to his church quickly. The three of them hovered for a moment, all thinking.

"I'm going to go inside and talk to Deanna about what he said." Maggie crossed her arms. "Make sure he hasn't been trying to get us kicked out or something worse."

"Right." Rick nodded. "We'll talk to him again later, see if we can figure out what's up."

"He seemed jumpy." Daryl added, watching the road where the preacher had disappeared. "Like he didn't wanna talk to us 'bout it. I dunno what he was told, but I don't like it."

"We'll make sure nothin' happens." Rick put a comforting hand on Daryl's shoulder. "Gabriel couldn't hurt a Walker, I don't think he'd hurt Warren."

"His words are the thing we need to worry about." Maggie nodded. "And we can easily take care of that. He won't be an issue."

"He better not be." Daryl was posturing, but he was understood. If Gabriel proved a problem, Daryl would be the one to take care of it.

~o~o~

Carl and Noah were by the lake when Rick and Daryl found them. They were talking to each other quietly, Carl apparently trying to connect with someone nearer to his age. When they approached, Carl stood up, hands in his pockets. "You're here 'cause Warren, yeah?"

"How'd you know?" Rick was surprised, and Daryl chuckled softly behind him. Word was already spreading without them.

"We heard." Carl chuckled, shuffling his feet slightly. "People aren't quiet here. They talk too much." He shook his head, turning back to Noah, who hobbled to his feet. The paused a second, communicating with each other silently, like they'd discussed how they would address this even if they hadn't been approached. "Are they right?" Carl asked, softly. "Is Warren bad?"

"No." Daryl shook his head, bending slightly so he was more on level with Carl and Noah, looking them in the faces. "You think I'd wanna bring him here t'meet you if he was a bad person?"

"They're just angry because he's different." Rick agreed, smiling. Daryl had always been good with Carl, and the rest of the kids, and it showed. He'd let the hunter take this one.

"How's he different?" Carl was curious, honest, and Noah was listening like he'd learn without having to ask a single thing. "What does transgender mean?" He paused, looking first at Daryl, and then at his dad. Daryl looked to Rick as well, but Rick shook his head, and Daryl realized he was on his own. How would he explain this? He'd have to pull it out of his ass, honestly, as he only barely understood himself. But it was better than nothing.

"Warren was born a girl, like Judith." Daryl said, moving to sit on the arm of the bench, letting Carl and Noah gather around him. "But somethin' didn't work out, 'cause he's not a girl. He's a guy. Just it's all up here." Daryl tapped his temple, and Carl nodded. "So he's got some different parts 'n stuff, but he's a guy like you 'n me."

"So he's got boobs?" Carl asked, and Daryl chuckled, because of course a teenage boy's first thought it about breasts.

"Nah." Daryl shrugged. "Dunno what he did, but he ain't got any."

"And he doesn't have a penis?" Carl asked, a little louder. Noah sat next to him, looking around, like talking about penises was something they shouldn't be doing.

"I don't think so." Daryl shrugged. "I ain't pulled down his pants or nothin' t'check." He was slightly red in the face from trying to think about it, and the questions were starting to get into a territory he didn't want to answer.

"Then how does he pee?" Carl was almost _worried_ , like not having a way to pee like a man, as a man, meant he couldn't pee at all. Rick chuckled, deciding it was high time he bailed Daryl out of the awkward situation.

"Just trust me, Carl, Warren works like a girl down there, and he's fine." Rick put a hand on his son's head and chuckled. "Don't worry about it. He's able to do what he needs to do."

"But how does he like, you know..." Carl tried to say something without saying it, and he was bad at doing it, and eventually Noah stepped in.

"He wants to know how Warren has sex with girls." Noah kind of chuckled, because he was somewhere between curious himself and too old for these kinds of questions. It was hard being slightly older but still uninformed, because he couldn't answer questions but at the same time he couldn't ask them either, because he was too old to be asking about this stuff. He did get _the talk_ , after all, which apparently Carl hadn't.

"Far as I know, he don't." Daryl chuckled, actually happy he could answer something with confidence. "He said he was gay, so I think he likes guys." He shrugged, because as far as he could figure a gay guy liked guys, and it made sense to him. Carl took a moment to take it in, and then nodded, happy.

"Good for you, huh." Was the response from Carl, and Daryl frowned at him. "I mean... Nevermind." He giggled, and everyone decided it was better to ignore what was said and move on. Daryl was okay with that - he was starting to grow tired of the tittering behind his back from the people who thought there was something there. He was just protective. Warren needed it.

"So you're both okay?" Rick asked, gentle, taking the conversation away from the things they all knew but Daryl didn't. If even Carl could see it, but Daryl couldn't, then he knew better than to let them push him into a place where he wasn't comfortable. Everything in good time.

"I think we got it." Noah smiled, nodding. "I mean, you guys like him, right? Isn't that the important part?"

"Yeah." Daryl shrugged, a soft smirk on his face, looking behind him at the place where Warren was staying. "He's a good kid."

~o~o~

Tara had already been told when they found her. She had no qualms with it, and it felt good that most of their group were alright. But she had wanted to speak with Daryl privately, which was strange. Daryl didn't really know Tara all that well, and her asking to speak with him alone was weird and uncalled for. But she seemed insistent, and he agreed. They found a place between the houses that was quiet, and undisturbed, and Daryl leaned against the wall. "Yeah?"

"Look." Tara was forward, but nervous at the same time. "I know you've probably gotten a lot of shit lately, and I just... if you wanna talk to someone, I'm here, okay?"

"About what?" Daryl's eyes narrowed, and he frowned. Gotten a lot of shit? What the fuck was she talking about?

"You and Warren." She tried to smile, and it was half-forced and awkward, but the sentiment was shared. "I know everyone's talking about you both, and just... I've been through this kinda stuff, you know?" She shrugged. "Like, not knowing how you feel, 'cause you've been a thing for so long it's weird to not be..."

"I'm fine." Daryl was gruff, but it wasn't any kind of angry. He understood - this whole thing was weird. He didn't really like thinking about it, because it was overly complicated, and he couldn't talk to Warren about it, because that was weird. It was hard enough doing this kind of thing without the apocalypse going on, but with Walkers added, it was hard. It was hard to think about Warren as anything more than someone to protect when everyone around them was trying to hurt him. And they'd only known each other for a few days, and it was almost a little too much. But the sentiment was understood.

"Just let me know, okay?" Tara reached out and awkwardly punched Daryl lightly, playfully, like she was trying to be a good friend and sort of failing at it, because no one told her Daryl wasn't like that. But it was okay all the same. It was okay, because Daryl got to have some quiet time, and a friend he could talk to if he needed it, and all was well.

"Daryl!" It was Rick, followed by Rosita, heading their direction. They were jogging, not running, and they seemed calm, even with the urgency in Rick's tone. "Can you watch Warren for a moment? I need to find someone who can cover the watch shift while we find Eugene or Sasha." Daryl didn't answer, his only response heading for the house. He'd been all day without seeing Warren, and it would be good for him to see the boy again. Maybe he was awake, though his sleeping face was so peaceful, Daryl almost wouldn't wish the waking world on him.

The house was quiet as he approached, and he sensed something was wrong. The door was open, for one. They rarely kept doors open, as that was an invitation to enter, and they didn't want random residents just barging in. It was their space, and no one else's. He paused at the foot of the stairs, tense, ready. He could feel it, right in his gut, that something was up. The stairs creaked under his feet, and he wished they wouldn't, tried to take back every moment when he wanted the house to make noise because now he needed silence. The lock hadn't been forced, he noticed, and the door was silent on its hinges, letting the hunter peer inside without announcing his arrival.

Warren was asleep in his bed, but he was not alone. Gabriel, clad in only a t-shirt and his pants, stood by the bed, head down. There was no one else around, and Daryl watched for a moment, hesitant. Gabriel wouldn't do anything. He was just praying to himself in low tones, repeating, over and over, the same phrase, " _May the_ _Lord_ _bless you and keep you;_ _May the_ _Lord_ _make His face shine upon you,_ _and be gracious to you. May the_ _Lord_ _lift up His countenance upon you,_ _  
_ _And give you peace"_ as though he were making a personal communion with someone in the room. And while the slightly crazed cadence to his tone, the rushed, almost panicked bounce to his repetition was strange, was a little worrisome, there was nothing inherently wrong with Gabriel feeling like he needed to pray over the sleeping newcomer.

It was when the silver blade flashed in the light that Daryl's hair stood on edge. Gabriel was clutching a long knife, unused, shined so it was bright in what little light there was, the blade facing down. Gently, slowly, eyes closed, still chanting, louder now, he raised the blade above his head, poised to bring it down. And Daryl, seeing him moving, did the only thing he could think.

He jumped him.

Gabriel went down hard, hitting the floor and shifting the bed several feet away, the bottom end skidding on the wood floor. The knife clattered in one direction, and the pair struggled for a hot minute, but the preacher was absolutely no match for Daryl's strength. He wasn't a fighter, and it was obvious, as Daryl pinned him easily and broke his nose in a hit, blood splattering across the floor. But Daryl wouldn't stop swinging, because he made a promise - no one was going to hurt Warren. And Gabriel had been ready to kill him. The preacher was crying, sobbing hot tears, even as Daryl beat him about the face, bloodying his lips and bruising his eyes.

"Daryl!" And Rick was back moments later, Rosita and Glenn right behind, the sound of their fighting sending them running, and he pulled Daryl mightily off Gabriel, holding the struggling hunter even as he tried to fight back. Gabriel, being freed, immediately went for the knife on the floor, brandishing it at them, all of them and not just Daryl, eyes wide and crazed.

"He must be cleansed!" Gabriel shouted, watching Rick let Daryl go, watching Daryl shift forward like he was going to tackle him again and readying his knife like he would actually use it. "He must be cleansed! God sent _her_ to this earth in a body that was defective, that believed her to be a man, and changing one's image away from the one that was given to you is a sin! He is unholy, and _she_ is suffering, and she must be cleansed and sent to the kingdom of heaven to be reborn correctly! _She_ will be reborn correctly, as the woman god meant her to-!"

He didn't get to finish. Daryl was on him like a dog released on prey, swinging hard at his already bruised face. Suddenly faced with having to fight, Gabriel attempted to swing, and the knife did bury itself in Daryl's shoulder. But it wasn't a big enough knife, and Daryl didn't care, and once unarmed Gabriel was too weak to fight back. There was nothing he could do, as Daryl floored him with another hit to the face, and brought him back up with his arms pinned behind his back.

"I was on your side." Rick said, venomous, hatred pouring out of him. "Until you opened your mouth." He reached up, pulling Gabriel's face to him. The man was pathetic now that he was put down and unarmed. "You wanted to murder him in cold blood."

"She must be reborn or she will never be happy as the woman she is meant to be." Gabriel took a long moment to speak through the blood in his mouth, but when he finished, Rick simply clocked him across the face.

"Attempted murder is a crime." Rick lowered his head, looking Gabriel in his swollen eyes. "And I'm going to show the rest of Alexandria what it means to commit a crime with me around." And he was threatening, deadly, serious with his accusation. "Glenn, take him to the basement in the other house and lock him in. We'll deal with him later tonight." He straightened, watching the exchange, watching Glenn take the pinned, bloody man from Daryl's arms, Daryl ripping the knife from his shoulder and twisting his arm around to make sure he could still use it. "We need to figure out what we're going to do to him." Rick paused, looking at Daryl bleeding slowly onto the carpet. "We need to make an example of him. We need them to see that we're serious. No one touches Warren."

~o~o~

Daryl's second set of stitches took them all of twenty minutes, as Rosita was deft at the art, and Daryl was too angry to feel the pain. It made him _livid_ to think that someone had actually tried to kill Warren that was in their group. Someone that they _trusted_ , someone that he had nearly gone to in confidence to talk about whether he should bolt, someone that he was thinking of talking to about _Warren_ of all things, because he was a preacher and they were supposed to be trusted. Preachers were supposed to be trusted. But Gabriel had renounced his faith just as soon as he had raised his blade.

He was sitting, grumpily, wanting to go bury his fists into Gabriel's face like it was putty, like he was molding clay into something, something flat, on the porch of their house, unwilling to leave again. He didn't want the same thing to happen, and he was lucky, as Eugene came to them not long after, wanting to talk. Rick sat on the stairs, and Daryl on the porch, and he came and sat by them, awkward, thinking already, trying to find words. When he spoke, he spoke slowly.

"I do not mean to offend, but I am seeking to understand. Maggie told me about what Warren is, and I cannot seem to wrap my head around the concept." Eugene was picking words, and that, in itself, improved Daryl's mood, because at least he was trying. "Why would someone want to alter their physical self? Biologically, the brain is hardwired to the genitals, so would that not mean that therefore the sense of gender imposed by society would match that?"

"It's not that simple." Daryl grumbled. He was in almost too angry still to speak correctly, but he was also trying. "You're talkin' like we're animals or somethin'."

"At the basest level, we are." Eugene was adamant about his biology, and Daryl stood, pacing on the porch, trying not to just leave and bury his head in the sheets and try and forget that anyone ever tried to fight it. Why couldn't everyone just be okay? "At the basest level we are animals, and there are no other animal species that react in that way to being assigned the incorrect sex. I cannot seem to understand how we are so different."

"It's not about biology." Rosita was the one that chimed in, having walking outside from checking on Warren's condition. "It's not about animals. I mean, come on Eugene, of every animal out there we have the highest brain process, and you're surprised we're not the same? We went to the fucking moon before the world ended, we were in space!" She tromped down the stairs, flopping next to him. "You're just not thinking about it right. Stop wondering why someone would want to become the opposite gender, and start this way: What if _you_ were mistaken for a woman so much that you had to pretend to be one or get hurt." She poked his chest. "What if you bled every month, and had back pain, and when you said you were a man, they laughed at your face and said no? What about that?"

"I had never thought about that." Eugene looked pensive, staring at his shoes.

"No. That's the issue. Just don't worry about it. Biology isn't a perfect thing. People die because their biology fucked up and gave them cancer. Just let him be happy." Rosita put a hand on his shoulder. "Just don't worry about it. Think of him as a guy."

"Would it be wrong of me to ask him questions when he awakes?" Eugene asked, twiddling his thumbs.

"Don't push him." Daryl stepped in, hovering over them, leaning on the column. "He ain't too good with tellin' stuff. He'll tell you if you go too far, 'n if you do, stop."

"I believe I can hold myself to that." Eugene smiled, a little happier and more content. "I apologize if my questions were too forward."

"Nah, you're good." Rosita chuckled. "We just had a previous issue. It's not you, promise." She patted his shoulder, and he was quiet, and for once in the past hour Daryl felt more okay. He felt at ease, okay now that the danger had passed. Gabriel was it. One bad apple, and that was it, and the more Daryl saw the people come together around Warren, the better he felt.

It was almost immediately shattered. Maggie came running up, panting, out of breath, Michonne right behind, and they looked panicked. Of course. Who was even left to tell? "One of you come talk to Sasha." Maggie said, between pants. "She won't listen to us."

Rick stood, and of course Daryl joined him, because he was Rick's right hand in these kinds of things, and he was also probably one of the few honestly willing to punch Sasha in the face. He was willing to punch just about anyone in the face when it came to keeping Warren safe, really. They were led out of the compound, outside the walls, and they only had to go a ways before they could follow the shouting on their own. Michonne stayed with them, ready, because if anything she could be the calming voice if Rick went nuts.

Sasha with Carol, who had stayed to make sure she didn't just run for it. She was screaming, gesturing wildly, more livid than Daryl had ever been. "It's not fair!" She was mid rant, waving around a knife like she was defending herself with it, but no one was attacking. "She can't just do that! It's not fair!"

"What's not fair?" Rick was quiet, and she turned on him, approaching him with knife drawn. Daryl stepped up, face up against that knife, not afraid of her hand or her blade. He'd already been stabbed once today, and she stepped back.

"She can't just not be a woman!" Sasha gestured towards the general direction of the camp. "That's not fair! I spend my life, every day of my life, suffering because of my womanhood! I hurt, and bleed, and I hurt worse when I don't bleed, and I have to _live with that_ out here! I do, and Michonne does, and Maggie does, and _Carol_ does! We have to live with being sanitary out here, with pain, with more blood than any of you-" She swept her blade across the faces of the men, pointing to both of them in turn, "-and she should have to do the same! She shouldn't be able to just say she's not a woman anymore, like she can just turn that off!"

" _He_ ain't just doin' it 'cause the world ended." Daryl stepped up, in her face, a dog at the end of its tether, his rope reaching its end. "He ain't just sayin' fuck bein' a woman to not be in pain! He's in pain, he's been in pain, and he's nearly got beat cause of it! You think he woulda chosen to get the shit kicked out of him? You think he woulda chosen t'have people hate him?" He was in her face, and she pushed right back.

"You think that's _worse_?" She was wide eyed, incredulous, _tired_ , even. "You think that's honestly worse? I would _gladly_ get hurt to just make this all _stop!_ " She pushed him, and it didn't deter him, only making him posture against her harder, almost nose to nose.

"He didn't wanna get beat, you think of that? But he did, cause he ain't a girl, and that ain't shit you gotta worry about. You ain't gotta worry about bein' attacked at night by people you trust." Daryl got in her face, nose to nose with her, dangerous against her fury. "You ain't gotta worry 'bout shit. All you gotta worry about is what happens when you fuck with Warren." He growled, low, and she turned on him, fury rekindled.

"Where was that when Bob died?" Sasha shouted, half in tears now, fury coming from sorrow and hatred now. "Where was that when Tyreese died? You barely cared about them! You care more about this _half girl_ than you ever did them! You could have saved them, either of them, but you didn't! What makes her special? What is it that makes her special?" Sasha swung at Daryl, the knife grazing his cheek as he tried to dodge, blood coating the blade. "What makes her better than either of them?! They're both dead, and you're going to such _great lengths_ to make sure everyone treats her like a fucking _flower_!"

"He isn't special." Michonne stepped in, quickly, before Rick could muck it up more. "Sasha, he's suffering just as much as you are. But he's alive. And we need to focus on taking care of our living. I know losing them was hard. I know how that feels."

"You don't!" Sasha swung out at Michonne, and the sword was drawn quickly, blocking the blade. Sasha stepped back, caught off guard, the fury in Michonne's eyes matching her own.

"Don't tell me what I don't know!" Michonne snapped, quiet in her fury. "Don't tell me I don't understand. We all do. We've all lost people. We've all lost loved ones. And we've all moved on, Sasha. We've all put it away for the nights when we miss them the most, but we don't dwell on it, and we don't blame _other people_ for their losses. Warren has nothing to do with either of their deaths."

"Sasha." Rick stepped up, the calm one in the group, and Sasha paused, fury stilled. "We're not asking you to accept him. We're just making sure you won't hurt him. He's one of us now. Take your time. Deal with what you need to. But don't blame us for protecting our own." He put a hand on Daryl's shoulder, pulling him back. Michonne sheathed her sword, crossing her arms, watching the boys back out of the situation. "Stay out here until you've cooled down." He nodded.

"Fine." Sasha crossed her arms, looking away from them and into the forest. "I don't want to be near her anyway."

"Him." Daryl corrected. "You ain't gotta like him, but you better respect him 'n not keep callin' him a _she_." He paused, voice quiet. "We at least did that much for Bob 'n Tyreese." He turned, leaving them on that note, uncaring whether they followed. He needed to be alone for a while, and while he wanted to escape into the forest, he was drawn back into the walls, back behind the suffocating closeness that was the steel and beams keeping them trapped in, because he would be damned if Warren woke up when he wasn't around.

~o~o~

He stayed there the rest of the day. It was peaceful, being the only one there. Warren was quiet, breathing softly, having little change since he'd been lain there. Daryl took the time to relax, to study the sleeping, peaceful face, the lithe fingers. He would run a finger down Warren's hand and watch the boy's eyelashes flutter slightly, long against his cheeks, lips shifting slightly. It was nice. He liked that. He liked watching Warren sleep, imaging his smile when he woke, his grey eyes bright.

He was there for several hours, and he spent a lot of it thinking. Thinking about the things that everyone else saw. Was this what most people felt for others? This need to stroke his hands, to watch his eyelashes flutter, to see those grey eyes? He wasn't sure. He'd need more time, he realized. He needed more time to think, to sort out the pieces of those thoughts, and to figure out what liking someone even meant. It wasn't like he'd honestly felt that before, and the idea of the emotion was foreign, let alone the emotion itself. He couldn't call it by name if he tried.

"Hey." Rick was quiet, watching Warren stir at his voice. This was good - maybe the boy would wake up soon. "We're holding a town meeting. I'm dealing with Gabriel."

That was news that Daryl honestly didn't want to care about. He didn't want to care about Gabriel, he didn't want to care about dealing with him. But he needed to be there. He was the spokesperson for Warren when Warren wasn't there. He wanted to stay, but he had to go. He grumbled, standing, following Rick out into the square. Everyone else was gathered, wrapped in shawls, gathered around a fire. Gabriel was being held at the back, in the shadows, away from the rest of the party, and Daryl hung back as well. He didn't want to be seen, not out in the open. He didn't know what Rick was going to do.

Rick stepped up to the fire, lit from below with hot red, eyes almost a little too crazy to be a leader, but everyone hushed anyway. He paused a moment, letting his eyes cast over the group, before he spoke. "Most of you know by now we have a new member of our community. His name is Warren. Most of you already know him. He lived here once, and he was removed, forcibly, and in a violent fashion. Then, it wasn't dealt with. The people who hurt him were not punished. But things are changing. I made Deanna a promise - _I_ am now the one in charge of dealing with people who hurt him. She had a chance to deal with the problem, and ignored it. No more." He paused, gesturing Abraham forward. He was the one holding Gabriel still, and he pushed the preacher forward, making him kneel by Rick's feet.

"The preacher, Gabriel, attempted to commit murder today. He was found in _our_ house, with a knife, trying to murder Warren. Because of his actions, he will be punished, and he will be punished as an example. No more of Deanna's little punishments, no more of this _wrist patting_ nonsense. You're dealing with me when you hurt him, and I'm not as kind." Rick pulled a pistol from his belt. His silver pistol, his safeguard, front heavy, and he aimed it at Gabriel's head. The preacher started to pray, softly, in a shaking voice, and Rick let him finish.

"Let this serve as a warning: This is what happens when you hurt my people." Rick cocked the gun, and without even looking, pulled the trigger.

The gasp and shock rippled through the crowd as the body dropped to the floor. Abraham was on hand immediately, ready to carry the body out of the gates and dump it on the road, a signal to all that would approach that the people here were no longer incapable. That they would fight, and win. The crowd tittered, on edge, and the dismissal was as simple as Rick's exit, heading back for their own abodes. Daryl followed, wanting to get out of there. The scene had too many people who were too expectant for an explanation of why things weren't normal anymore, and he didn't want to have to provide.

Carl and Judith were waiting in front of the house, Carl bouncing the baby on his hip. Rick quietly took the child, the little girl gurgling at him happily. "He's awake." Carl said, softly, and Daryl bolted for the door. This was the one thing he promised himself, and he hadn't been there. Warren was sitting up when he got in the door, and he paused. The boy was smiling, red in the face, happy now, and that's all Daryl could have hoped for. "I heard what you did." Warren chuckled. "Going around, making sure everyone knew."

"Didn't want nothin' t'go bad." Daryl was almost a little embarrassed that he was found out. But instead of being mad, Warren chuckled, summoning the hunter to his bedside with a soft pat on the sheets.

"Thanks." Warren smiled, weak still in body, but fully sincere. "That was brave, taking care of me like that. I couldn't have done it." He chuckled, looking up as Rick entered the room. He was carrying Judith still, who gurgled at Warren when she saw him. "You have a baby?"

"Yeah. My wife... passed away, so it's just me and Carl and her." He bounced the baby and she reached for Warren with tiny, grabby hands.

"May I?" Warren asked, and he was so gentle as he took her and sat her in his lap. She giggled, and he was immediately taken, making faces at her and letting her grab at his clothes and hair. He would coo, and she would giggle happily, loudly even. He would hide his face for a moment, and she would laugh when he would re-appear, grabbing at his hands to keep him from hiding again. Watching him play with the girl, Daryl made a decision. No one would hurt Warren again, and anyone who had needed to be taught how to be a real man. Like how his brother taught lessons, with fists. Because the boy was too good, and too kind, to live in a world where the people were just as deadly as the Undead.


	10. Full Tilt

Daryl didn't leave Warren's side for nearly two weeks. Job be damned, outside world be damned, all of it be damned, Daryl wasn't moving. The infection had been pretty bad, and Warren would occasionally relapse back into a mild fever for a day or two, but the boy was out of the proverbial woods, at least. Nothing his body did at this point would kill him, and the antibiotics they were throwing at his system made sure of it. Daryl would stay awake while Warren slept, watching him, watching the windows, just watching. Someone still needed to be on high alert around Warren, because even with the previous incident growing further and further back in the past, the residents weren't happy.

They never did anything, luckily. Daryl would see them peeking into the windows with heavy scowls, gone as soon as they saw him move to get up, like they were scared to be caught. And of course they were scared - whether they were terrified of Daryl, who usually looked fairly pissed off when he had to get up, or the fact that the last person to bother Warren got _executed_ , it didn't matter - and that meant that Daryl barely had to break out of his own thoughts to deal with them. And he spent a lot of the time thinking.

Why was it that he stayed here? He was having trouble sorting himself out these days. It used to be so simple - he stayed because it was useful, because he needed them and couldn't work alone, because they needed his protection and he got something good out of keeping them alive - but it wasn't like that anymore. He didn't necessarily _need_ Warren to survive - he could function perfectly well on his own - and with the way his group were integrating into the system that was Alexandria, they didn't need him anymore. Whatever happened to running?

The bike sat unfinished and unused in the garage. _That's_ what happened to running.

That, and the idea of leaving Warren behind was like a line tied to Daryl's wrist, tugging just hard enough when he turned to leave that he couldn't keep going. To run would be to snap that line and send Warren reeling back, and he couldn't do that to the boy. Maybe that was a good enough reason, Daryl thought one morning, arms crossed on the end of the bed, head on the sheets, watching Warren sleep peacefully, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a soft comfort. Maybe Warren needed _him_. Maybe, being ill, Warren needed him to get better. Maybe if Warren got better and could function alone, they'd part like normal people, only having crossed paths by sheer accident, torn apart again by the oscillating universe, never to see each other again.

He didn't think that would happen, but saying it wouldn't didn't mean it couldn't.

Warren stirred, and he sat up, pushing his chair to the head of the bed. The boy yawned, stretched, and pushed himself up, leaning against the pillows stacked high behind him. "Morning." Warren said, sleepily, a smile on his face.

"It's three o'clock." Daryl replied, soft, chuckling.

"It's still morning fuck you." Warren reached out for a gentle punch to Daryl's shoulder, a playful movement that seemed so natural to the two of them that it overwrote the natural awkwardness a punch to the shoulder usually entailed. "But seriously. Did you sleep?" Warren asked, stretching with his arms to the ceiling.

"Nah. But 'm good." Daryl leaned back in his chair, ultimately relaxed and even a little sleepy himself. If he could have seen himself from the outside, he would realize his questions had answers he just couldn't see. He _did_ need Warren - not like a fish needs water, or a bird needs wings, but like how a dog needs a good field to run in, or a child needs a hot summer day full of climbable trees and sweet, green grass. Not a need on the big official Table of Needs - Maslow was a smart guy, but his table was too simple and too emotionless - but something more than that. It was a need that couldn't be categorized, not as an Emotional Need nor as a need for Love or Esteem or Self Actualization. It was a need without boundaries, a more metaphysical need - like how an acoustic guitarist needs a warm coffee shop to play in, or how a cold day needs a hot drink and a warm fire and a good movie at the end. The kind of need Daryl had for Warren was the kind of need that breeds perfect moments, sweet and wonderful and complete moments without need for anything additional. He needed Warren, because when they were around each other, they bred perfect moments like this one - warm in the comfort of the house, unafraid, playful and sleepy with no desire to move, content in the presence of each other, content in the knowledge that the other wouldn't break the moment because of awkwardness or self awareness or for anything less than the greatest of biological needs - and in the same way, Warren needed him.

"You should sleep." Warren frowned slightly, sitting up on his own, pulling away from the pillows. "I feel bad hogging the bed if you're not even gonna sleep."

"'M good." Daryl's reply was a hush to the question. "I'll nap later." He leaned forward, motioning Warren to lift his arms so he could check on the scars. They no longer needed bandages, as they weren't oozing anymore, and Rosita had predicted the stitches from the original incisions could be removed by the end of the week. They were no longer red, though around the stitches themselves they were a little pink. "You ever gonna tell me what happened?" Daryl asked, running a callused thumb over the scar, the light mark stark against the honey darkness of Warren's skin. He'd asked that question once a day, every day, since Warren had woken up, and every day he'd gotten silence. He never pressed further, but he always asked, hoping one day he'd get lucky and Warren would say.

Today must have been his lucky day, because after a moment, Warren spoke. "I guess you're just gonna ask until you know, huh?" He smiled, chuckled, too engrossed in the perfect moment to not reply, subconsciously fighting to not break the spell they created. "And I guess they're pretty worrisome looking. Somewhere between _I got clawed by a bear_ and _I tried to slice my own chest open_ and honestly I feel like you're gonna be disappointed." He chuckled, putting a hand over the scar, running a finger in a circle around the area.

"But it's pretty simple. I used to have boobs. Like, _boobs_." He held his hands out from his chest like he was cupping something. "Like, never got to have pretty bras because my tits were big enough to be real melons _boobs_. And they sucked, because even squashing them away just made me look like I had much smaller boobs, and not like I had none at all or very large pecs, which is what I was trying to achieve. And there was this surgeon, and he was carting around a van full of medical bullshit and he'd run out of food and I'd seen him here once before I went and these people were like _nah_ and chased him out but honestly I was pretty desperate, 'cause big breasts are a leading cause of massive back pain and it was _so fucking hard_ to fight zombies and hunt and shit when my back tried to kill me every damn day, so I told him I'd feed him if he got rid of my boobs. And he did, and it worked, and he said he'd stick around and come back in like a week to check on them and when I woke up the next morning all my food was gone and as you can probably figure out, he never came back. You found me two weeks later." Warren shrugged, but it was clear this wasn't a happy funtimes story. It was clear that this admission, that he trusted this someone when it was clear he probably shouldn't have and paid the price for it, was somewhat embarrassing. It was embarrassing that he was so desperate to change, and he spit the story out like a bad taste, like if he just said it once he'd never say it again.

Daryl put a hand on the boy's knee, hidden by the sheets. He didn't need to say anything - he got it as best he could get it. He'd never know the ultimate pain of wanting to change oneself so thoroughly, of course, but he understood what it was to be desperate. He understood what it meant to want something so bad you'd do anything for it, even risky bullshit. He was no stranger to hard times. They were quiet for a moment, before Daryl stood. "Thanks." He smiled, the thanks a bit strange to Warren for a moment, until he realized Daryl was thanking him for telling him. _Thanks for trusting me_ , he was saying, but it was gruff and hard and it made Warren smile because _boy_ Daryl was trying hard not to look like this was a big deal even though it very much was. "I'm gonna get som'thin' t'eat." He spoke, turning to look out the windows, the day bright outside. "Want anythin'?"

"Nah." Warren waved him off. "Go take a break. Carl is gonna bring Judith by for a bit, so I'll be fine. Get out, see people." He looked almost sad, the smile on his face almost guilty. "Do the things you like doing, okay? I don't wanna be the reason you became a hermit and never left your home. Next thing you know you'll be shaking a cane at kids on the lawn." He chuckled, and Daryl laughed with him.

"I'd just shoot 'um." Daryl shook his head, giving the boy one last glance before heading for the door. Carl was a good kid and could take care of Warren if he needed it, and the boy was right - he needed to get outside. Not only because he'd been in that room for forever, but also because he had some things to do. He'd made a promise, after all. And no one was exempt.

He found Aaron pretty quickly, as the man had been using Daryl's inability to leave to take some time with his boyfriend, and they could only go so far when Eric's ankle was still healing. They were sitting by the tiny lake on a bench, enjoying a sort of picnic lunch with sandwiches that only had one slice of meat and cheese as that's all they could get their hands on. They looked up when Daryl approached, motioning him to sit on a nearby chair. Daryl didn't, remaining on his feet, hands in his pockets. "Hey." Aaron stood to mimic him, a little uncomfortable with Daryl's stance. The hunter looked like he was on a mission to kill, and Aaron was worried someone in the camp had done something else. They'd had enough death's inside the walls to last a lifetime. "What's up?"

"You guys remember a surgeon comin' by at any point?" Daryl asked, right to the point. "'Pparently had a van, lots of medical shit?"

"Oh, you mean Joe." Eric said, bitter at the name.

"He's, uh, a local drifter of sorts." Aaron said, soft, like saying the surgeon's name would incite a riot. "He came around every two or so months for a while, looking for food in exchange for medical supplies. At one point, he asked if he could stay, but we weren't having it. He wasn't the nicest, and he had that aura that he was a creep." Aaron tensed at the image he described, hands in his pockets. "It's been a bit since we've seen him. He's sort of learned not to come back, though I've seen him around on the routes we used to take. I don't think he wants to go far." He paused. "Why?"

"No reason." Daryl lied through his teeth, too busy planning to think of a better lie. "Your garage still open?"

"Yeah, you uh..." Aaron had started to speak, but Daryl had already started off for the garage, leaving them to their picnic. They watched Daryl walk away briskly, head down and hands in his pockets. The hunter was thinking, hard - if that surgeon came by every two months, it meant he probably only traveled a month out, and it had been five weeks since his last sighting - he should be a week back towards them at this point. This meant that Daryl could go out, find him, take back what was Warren's, and be back in six weeks at longest. He didn't let himself linger on why, letting his impulses run him as he headed for the nearly fixed bike, determined to leave by the evening.

~o~o~

The bike was ready by midnight. Aaron had come back at some point, but hadn't asked him any questions, letting him work on his own. He had stopped trying to think too much about anything besides what direction he needed to head. His blood was pounding in his veins and he hadn't felt a rush like this in a long time, nor a purpose to his actions. He was hunting again, and this was big game, and he could hear his heart in his head as he worked.

When he was done, covered in grease and dust and oil, he returned to their home. Everyone was asleep, including Warren, who snoozed soundly in his bed. He was so pure looking, sleeping there, white sheets and blond hair over dark skin, while Daryl hovered over him like a blackened wraith, dark from work and sweat and oil. He didn't linger, grabbing water and some other basic rations and throwing them in a bag, before pulling out a notepad and a pen. He left grease on the paper, and here he paused. What could he say?

 _Warren,_

 _Don't worry. Gonna fix your problem, and come back soon._

 _Daryl_

He was curt, and to the point, and he stuffed the note under Warren's pillow. He didn't question his need to leave a note, though it was an interesting point - he had some internal need for Warren to know he was coming back, that he wasn't abandoning him, and that they would see each other again. Like he needed to make the point that the universe wasn't unceremoniously ripping them apart, and that they would drift back into each other's bubbles soon.

With water and food in hand, and the bike done, he was ready to go. The open road called him, sweetly, whispering to him with hot breath in his ear. The bike's handles were cold under his hot hands as he closed the gate, the motor's hum when he started it rattling the frame and sending shivers down his spine. He missed this. Even though he was leaving things behind, even though he wasn't running and he was coming back, the road kicking up under his feet and the rumble of the engine felt like home, and he had missed it.


	11. The Road

There was nothing quite like the open road to calm him. It stretched before him unsullied and unmarred by the dead for miles and miles, cleared out by who knows what. Did the Alexandrians think that far ahead? Maybe. Did many people pass through? It was one of the only routes from their area outward, and it was the only way to meet the major highway that cut through the otherwise untouched wilderness around it. The highway was broad, and full of cars when Daryl reached it, bike easily cutting fast swathes between the vehicles like there was no problem to it.

It was there that the Walkers began to come out in droves, and Daryl had to slow. He'd hear them, the echo of the deep set highway enough to hear the moans and feet easily, and he'd park his bike and climb a tree, nestled there quiet until the hoard passed. A few roamers were never a problem, and he would only bother to stop for them if they were in his way, but the hoards were another thing entirely. He'd get in a tree and watch as hundreds if not _thousands_ of Walkers lumbered passed. Sometimes he'd be able to continue in a few minutes - once, he found himself stuck in the tree until the next morning, the Walkers marching onwards into nightfall. This was new, and different, and Daryl kept a close eye out as they walked by. It was like entire cities of them left at the same time, heading for who knows what and who knows where, aimlessly following the familiar routes of the highways until they found _something_.

Daryl was always thankful they never found him.

In between his sessions of driving - long expanses of nothing but hot black pavement and wind and speed and the rumble of a steady, even machine underneath him, bandana over his face keeping out any dust or debris as he passed through cloud after cloud of kicked up sand and sunglasses over his eyes keeping out the glare of the high noon sun - he would have to stop, either to refuel his ride from passing cars, or simply sit and eat and sleep. He never drove at night, as his headlight gave him away before he could see any threats, and he'd spend a lot of time in trees at night not sleeping. During these moments, he thought. He had a lot to think about.

Why the fuck was he out here? Well, he was hunting. It gave him a rush just to think about, because it was such a familiar feeling. The stalking, tracking, sneaking of it, the itch of his trigger finger as he passed an inn or a building and searched it out. But what did that even matter? He wouldn't do this for anyone else. Most of the others wouldn't need him to - they'd do it themselves. He would help, of course, but Rick or Carol would be out there themselves, because no one wronged their family.

He paused, one hand on a long tube he was using to siphon gas, eyes scanning the area. There was one person he'd do this for, he realized, pulling the tube and letting the excess drain before he put it away. He'd do it for Beth. Hell. he _did_ it for Beth. She was taken and he tracked her all over hell. She was wronged and he found her. It wasn't pleasant, honestly, to compare the two - Warren to Beth - because it hurt him to think of Beth, and it hurt him more to think of Warren trapped like she was, _killed_ like she was.

He sat on the hood of the car he had been taking gas from, watching a dust cloud down the road. Why did it hurt him? God, it was hard enough to figure out why Beth's death dealt such a blow to him. Maybe it was that he had been in charge of her when she was taken. He knew he liked protecting her - she was sometimes more pushy than she needed to be, but she was young, and joyous, and he found a smile forming at the thought of her. She was a spark when he was kindling - he could only burn when she let him. And he guessed Warren was similar. Not a spark, but a candle - slow burning, but bright and vibrant and _constant_.

Being constant was a big thing, honestly. Beth was a butterfly, flighty, and hard to keep up with. She made him feel old, as she was so spry, and it made her hard to protect. But while that was a hassle, he also enjoyed that - he enjoyed chasing her, enjoyed her life in the dead world. But Warren was solid. He was steady, and unfaltering, and Daryl found that just as lively, just as full. Warren gave him peace, and he enjoyed that just as much.

But what did he feel for Beth, and what did that mean for Warren? He thought about this question for a while, the open road quiet, and finally decided on an answer that night, the tree rustling gently around him, Walkers moaning on the road. He had avoided thinking on what he felt for Beth, because it was complicated and with her dead, it honestly barely mattered. He had found himself drawn to her, drawn to her radiance, and he spent a lot of his long ride thinking of the words he's use to describe what they were.

Love? Maybe. Like a sister. For all Daryl's bravado about women, and all Merle's teachings, and all he told himself, thinking of loving Beth like anything other than a sister put a knot in his stomach. It called up old, scaly memories of alcohol and Merle and he pressed them back like old bile, wishing he could just flush them forever out of his system. But the feeling was love, and he could tell that much. He had, at one point, loved his mother, and he had loved Merle, and the feeling was the same. The deep connection between them, the hot river of something there was no different.

But did he love Warren? _That_ question kept him occupied for days upon days, kept him awake night after night. Because the feeling was no different. The deep connection was there. The strings between them were strong, and supple, and if he loved Beth, then there was no question as he felt the same thing for Warren. But when he thought about loving the boy like a brother, it felt... weird. It felt like he had touched something with a horrible texture, and it made him shiver. He didn't know why, but to love Warren like a brother felt wrong. Did that mean he loved him like a lover?

The city loomed up ahead, dark in the sinking evening, the sun nearly set. If he could get inside, he'd be safe until morning. The first building was open, and he pulled his bike inside, cradled in the darkness of the walls, the interior silent. He checked it anyway, and he found nothing but concrete floor and chained doors. Once settled, he sat. Thinking about this stuff was hard. Not only was he tasked to sort out what he felt for Warren, he also had to find names for it and figure out what it all meant.

Warren was a boy, he'd figured that much out. Even though Warren's body was female as far as Daryl was aware, telling himself that Warren was anything but was a mistake. Not only would that be an insult to Warren, and a horrible one at that, but thinking of Warren as a girl made Daryl's stomach swim like those memories would come back. Warren was a boy, and love felt like the right word, and as he sat in the dark, he pressed his head to his hands. He'd been out of food for three days, and water for two, and his stomach's churning at the idea of Warren being a woman made him feel ill. He hadn't found anything to hunt for, and it hadn't rained, and the dust on the roads was hot and drained him further. The dark was a nice retreat.

 _You're not gay._ The voice was faint, ghostly, and Daryl shot up like he would have to defend himself, only steadying when he recognized the harsh lilt. _Merle_. Come back to haunt him, proper this time, not the wraith like image he'd seen before, but a good and proper ghost. Which was dumb, because Daryl couldn't fight a ghost, as far as he was aware. But there was no other noise than that, just Merle's voice in Daryl's head, as it had always been.

 _I thought I beat that outta you, little brother_. He could hear the voice, but it had no source but his own mind, his starved subconscious fighting him. He responded loudly, pressing hands to his head, nearly falling back to the hard pavement. "You ain't done shit!" He snapped, angry now, on fire now that he was being questioned. But the voice was just that, a voice, and continued unperturbed.

 _I taught you how to love a woman proper._ The voice was honey, sweet and sickening, and Daryl shook his head. There was no talking to it, no convincing it that it was wrong, so he only had one other option - drown it out, internally. He sat there, repeating, his own voice in his head: _Warren ain't no girl, Warren's a boy, 'n if love is th' right word then fuck it._ He repeated that, over and over again, drowning out Merle's voice in the back of his head, screaming at him with horrible things like _faggot_ and _failure_ and _I thought I raised you better than this_. He ignored the voice, and eventually, he fell asleep that way, hands on his own head, locked up tight in that room with only Merle's hateful slurring for company.

~o~o~

He woke to voices. He was hungry, and dehydrated, but the voice was gone. There were people outside, and he crawled to his crossbow, unlatching the front door as quietly as he could and peering out the crack. It was bright outside, almost blinding compared to the infinite darkness of the building, and he watched as a slumped little man tried desperately to pry the lock off the second door. He had a van, and his van had a Red Cross hand painted on it, and he was alone. Daryl's pulse quickened as he put the ideas together in his head.

The door was loud when he threw it open, and the little man screamed. He dropped to his knees, babbling pathetically, as Daryl approached, crossbow raised. He paused there, staring. This was the guy that hurt Warren, sniveling in front of him, scruffy face and red eyes and very little hair. "Please don't kill me." He whined.

"What's your name?" Daryl demanded the answer, stepping forward. Those red eyes, small in the man's face, were searching when he wasn't trying to plead for his life, and Daryl knew better than to think he was harmless.

"Joe." The man said, hands raising politely as he stood, antsy now. "Doctor Joe. D'you need medical assistance? I can-I can help, I can do whatever you need me to." He tried to smile, edged toward the car, and Daryl advanced quickly, making him stop. The hunter pressed close, tip of the loaded arrow so close to Joe's head that he could feel the cold steel.

"You visited a boy outside of Alexandria." He growled, face hot, blood racing. This was him. He'd done it, he'd found him, he'd gotten here, and now it was go time, and the adrenaline was pumping and he was seeing _red_.

"I, oh! Her!" Joe chuckled, awkward, and Daryl nearly threw his crossbow down, advancing so fast the man actively fell over and nearly hit his head on his van.

" _Him!_ " Daryl barked, grabbing Joe's shirt and pulling him up to face him. "He ain't no girl 'n you made him a promise 'n you _broke it_ and he nearly died." Daryl went quiet, pulling the man's face close.

"You some kind of body guard?" Joe hiccuped.

"No." Daryl threw him at the van, lifting his crossbow again. "Get all his stuff in bags and bring it here." He ordered, watching Joe disappear in the van. One small bag exited at high speed, landing near the exit, and then another, and then nothing. Joe didn't re-appear, and Daryl warily

approached the doors. He expected the worst, so it didn't surprise him when Joe made an attempt to leap at him with a knife, and earned a crossbow to the face for his trouble. Daryl dropped the bow, lifting the man by the shirt collar again, and his face was bleeding and honestly, there was nothing else Daryl _needed_ to do but all this frustration at himself was building and he needed an outlet.

~o~o~

He left that building with the van parked out front and Joe's body in it, broken but alive, Daryl's own knuckles bleeding, his bags full of Warren's food and his stomach full as well. He didn't kill Joe, no, but the gentle moaning in the distance was a good clue that the man wouldn't survive the night, and Daryl didn't care. He had to get back, to show Warren there was nothing to worry about anymore, and that he'd gotten his things back. He had to show Warren he'd go to the ends of the earth to keep him safe.

That night he slept soundly, belly full, head quiet for once. The night was peaceful around him, and he smiled. The road was wonderful under his hands, but he couldn't wait to get home.


	12. Firehouse

It took him more weeks to get home than he figured it would. He spent a lot of time hunting, as he wanted to bring back _some_ of Warren's food, but the cans were a life saver and he had to be thankful for that. He started to run into wildlife as he grew closer to the camp - apparently, they really liked Alexandria, probably for the same reason people did: safety. The Alexandrians had cleared out the area and kept it clear, so the deer and rabbits and squirrels could feast and forage in relative safety near the walls. It also meant that there were less Walkers, and Daryl didn't have to be so wary when hunting, focusing on the kill and less on his own safety.

It was dawn. He crawled out of his tree that he didn't sleep in and went straight for his bike. It was already packed, and even though the light had barely begun to filter through the trees, he started out towards home. It was empty, as he knew it would be, the last few miles into the town cleared regularly, and he didn't have to fear the darkness even as it closed in on him. The road was long and pink in the rising sun as it started to show through the tree line. Suddenly, as though pushed against by an unknown force, Daryl stopped, the bike skidding to a halt with a scream of rubber on asphalt, his head high, nose up. _Smoke_.

And not just a little smoke - the road ahead was clouded with it, trapped in the clearing of the road, blocking the view even as it rose into the morning sky. There was only one explanation for it, and Daryl's heart _jumped_ , blood pounding as he roared off into the haze. There was only one thing in the area that could produce that much smoke if it was on fire, and all he could think of was Warren. His bike was warm under his hands, but soon the heat was on him and it made the metal hot, almost too hot to handle, and he quickly abandoned the bike, nearly vaulting himself off of it in his haste. It was only when he got within feet of the walls that he could really see the blaze.

Alexandria was _burning_. Every house seemed to be on fire, every bush and plant and tree was ablaze, even every rock seemed to be smoking with the heat. The walls popped like thunder, twisting and bending under the heat, warping and shrieking at him like they could feel the pain. The smoke was thick, rising from the buildings, hot and burning in his lungs, but he didn't heed the warning the smoke gave him, pressing forward into the compound. The gate was hot to the touch and burned his hands to open it, and he struggled with breath for a moment against the smoke. He was lucky, as the fire was recent enough that none of the buildings had yet to collapse, but the creaking and groaning around him, loud against the crackle of fire, said enough. He didn't have much time before the buildings would start to come down.

" _Warren!_ " He called out, throat aching against the stress of working when he could only inhale smoke, and he coughed a deep chest cough, stumbling into the streets. Bodies were baking on the pavement, flesh melting, and amid the smoke he could smell the stink of burning hair and skin. " _Rick!_ " He tried again, pressing for the infirmary, the building's porch half collapsed, the plastic melted, thick black smoke rising from its burning. It creaked at him, loudly, and he could barely jump back before it simply gave way, collapsing downward like it was worn out. The rush of heat pushed from the building's fall knocked Daryl over, and he struggled to recover as the smoke and dust refused to settle, forcing his lungs to work extra hard to find real air.

The ground had the most oxygen, and he recovered there quickly, pulling his bandana over his face again before he stumbled to his feet. The heat was starting to blister uncovered skin, even though he didn't near any real blaze - but the high metal walls kept the heat in and the area was starting to act like an oven, the air unable to escape quick enough to cool the spaces in between and leaving even the clear streets sweltering hot. Daryl moved quickly, heading for their lodging, their houses, and the front door was clear of fire or smoke and he broke it down quickly. He could feel the heat from above him, and he didn't waste time. " _Carol! Maggie!"_ He tried other names, anyone's name, calling for Glen or Michonne or Carl, any sign of life. The bed in the center of the room was empty, covers thrown back, and things were missing. Someone left in a hurry.

The house creaked, loudly, the heaving of wood unable to survive the onslaught of the blaze. Daryl looked up, and could see the floorboards heaving downward, the fire seeping through the cracks in the floor, the glass of downstairs shattering around him as the boiling of the room caught the bed and the curtains. The house heaved again, the three floor structure too weak in the middle, and quickly Daryl dove for the closest stable surface he could duck under - the bed.

The house came down around him not a second later.

It was heavy and dusty once it settled, and Daryl was lucky he was alive. The bed's frame was hefty metal, and the mattress had not yet caught aflame - though that was still a possibility, and Daryl couldn't wait until it did - so it cushioned the falling debris. He was bruised, he could tell, pretty much all over, and he would need to free himself before he could assess the real extent of his injuries. His leg seared with pain and he didn't look down at it, because he knew already how bad it was - definitely broken, and it would take some work to make sure he got out of this mess with it fully intact - and instead he looked ahead, trying to judge the sheer amount of weight he would need to move.

The bed had been pressed against the wall in whomever's hurry to leave, and that meant there was a wall nearby. The piece against the bed had not crumbled, but Daryl could beat on it fairly easily with his crossbow. He shifted, pulling on his leg, and it resisted. It was slammed between two large pieces of wood, and he carefully shifted them aside to get it free. Definitely broken, but he didn't have the time to deal with that - the debris were still on fire, and the mattress was starting to smoke. He coughed, giving himself some room, and slammed the crossbow against the wall. Drywall was never meant to withstand much more than a few pounds of gentle force, and it gave easily around the stud it was still supported by. It took a few strikes to really clear a hole big enough for him, and he pulled himself through it, falling a few feet to the ground now that the porch had collapsed as well. He groaned, the heat still oppressive, boiling around him, and struggled to his remaining limb, picking up a large un-burnt stud to support himself with.

Clearly someone had fled, and he struggled to the road, looking for any sign. He quickly picked up on one - footprints, heading for the outer wall - and he followed them, panting a little, throat too raw to shout now. He saw it once he reached the wall - their escape, a foxhole barely big enough for a person, and he struggled through it, more falling into it than actually doing much. Outside the walls was much cooler, and the trees were far enough away that they hadn't caught fire, and he lay on the ground for a long, long moment, basking in the relief. His skin was blistered along his arms, and his leg was oozing gently into his pants, but he wasn't hot anymore and that's what mattered. His eyes slipped closed, body tired with what little food he'd been getting and the injuries draining him.

He had apparently passed out, he realized what he thought was moments later. The sun had slipped high in the sky in those moments, shining heavy through his closed eyes, and it didn't take him long to realize he had slipped away for several hours. He wasn't in the same place, either, as the heat of the fire at his feet was gone, and someone was pressing cool hands to his face. His eyes were heavy, but he managed to open them, and slowly someone came into focus. Never in Daryl's life had he been more happy to wake up, because there above him was Warren, hovering above him with the sun behind his head like a dark skinned Michelangelo painting, halo and everything.

"Thank god." Warren breathed out, sitting back on his heels, and Daryl shifted to a sitting position, tucking his good leg under him. His arms had bandages and his leg had that and a splint, and they'd moved him to a more secluded area of trees. Surprisingly enough, the pain was dull, even with the state of his leg. "I wasn't sure you'd wake up."

"What happened?" Daryl pressed a hand to his head, heat still making him dizzy, but he forced himself to focus on Warren, and the dizziness began to subside.

"There were these men. They spoke with Rick for a while, but it didn't go very well. They came back and stormed the gates with trucks and killed a lot of people before setting the buildings on fire. I didn't get to see much myself - they said to take the kids, so I grabbed as many medical supplies as I could and ran." Warren hovered as he spoke, gentle, unsure. There was a long moment after he finished where neither said a word, the silence infinite and tense, more awkward than before. There was a look in Warren's eyes that said he was afraid - afraid to touch, like Daryl wasn't even real, like he wasn't really there - and that look struck Daryl deep, because he realized suddenly _why_ Warren was afraid - Daryl had left.

"I thought you weren't coming back." Warren finally said, soft, nearly a whisper, hands balled into fists on his thighs.

"I said I'd come back." Daryl frowned, knowing he left the note to prevent this but his leaving caused it all the same. Warren clenched his fists tightly, chuckling sadly.

"The amount of times I've been told _I'll Come Back_ and they never did... I don't trust notes. It's just the easiest way to break ties without having to say goodbye. " Warren looked up, needing something, really _needing_ it, his eyes so telling Daryl could understand what they meant when they said eyes were windows to the soul.

"I don't break promises." Daryl finally grumbled, and that seemed to break the spell of silence, break the tension, and that comforting quiet flooded in instead. Warren slipped closer, gently wrapping his arms around Daryl's neck in a tight hug, and it felt _right_ and _good_ to be there, to have Warren nearly in his lap and his arms around Daryl's neck, and the hunter hugged back just as tightly. Warren smelled like smoke and iodine and sweat and earth and it was honestly comforting to Daryl, grounding him in the there and the now and giving him new life and new energy to keep moving.

It clicked, right then, what Warren meant to him. It clicked that Warren renewed him in a way that no one else did - he was water to a dry plant, rain to a desert, and it flooded Daryl with warmth just to know he was there. And holding Warren there in his arms, he knew, above all else, that he wouldn't let anything pull him away again.


End file.
